For Your Paws Only (7 page)

Brie gave him a sly smile. “Aha. So,
mon cousin,
zee fact is, you are still—how you say—available?”

By now, Dupont was scarlet from the tip of his ugly snout to the tip of his ugly tail. Before he could speak again, however, a big rat with a powerful set of shoulders thrust himself between him and Brie. “Enough of the pleasantries,” he said rudely. “Time to get down to business.”

Dupont's upper lip curled, and he sniffed the air disdainfully. “Stilton Piccadilly,” he snarled. “I thought I smelled you. Since when do you call the shots around here?”

“Just because you called this meeting doesn't mean you get to run the show,” Piccadilly retorted. “We're not your servants. Besides,” he continued, “I didn't fly all the way from London for chitchat. We've got work to do.”

Turning his back insolently on the British rat, Dupont surveyed the others. “I don't know about the rest of you, but I need breakfast first,” he said. “We can hardly be expected to conduct business on an empty stomach. How about it, rodents? Brie, a little
petit dejeuner
? And
you there, Muenster—had anything to eat yet today?”

Muenster Alexanderplatz, a coal-black rat with a puckered scar alongside his snout, shook his head. “
Nein,
” he replied, his stomach chiming in with a loud growl.

A grizzled old rodent with a low-slung belly waddled slowly forward. As he did so, the other rats moved respectfully out of his way.

“Greetings, Gorgonzola,” said Dupont with a formal bow.

Gorgonzola inclined his head in response. As the oldest rat in the group, he commanded respect both for his experience and his ferocity—not to mention his legendary appetite. An appetite that included . . . well, things most of his fellow rodents would never consider. Not even Dupont.

“
Sì,
Dupont, you are right,” he rumbled, his low, raspy voice brushed with the lilt of his native Italy. “We've traveled far. We need food
presto
before we begin.”

There was a murmur of agreement from the others. Dupont shot Stilton a triumphant look. “Seems you're overruled,” he said. Holding out a paw to his Parisian cousin, he inclined his head toward the sewer pipe. “Shall we, my dear?”

As the rats filed back toward the sewer pipe that led up to Track 77, they failed to notice the trio of small figures suspended above them in the shadows.

“Greedy chaps, aren't they?” whispered one of them.

“You can always count on a rat to put his stomach first,” agreed another.

“Glutton-like they feed, yet never filleth,” replied the third. “To paraphrase the Bard, of course.” He began to climb paw over paw up a long strand of dental floss affixed to the sewer grate far above. “You two stay here and keep a sharp lookout,” he called back over his shoulder. “I'm going to go find the others.”

DAY TWO • WEDNESDAY • 0900 HOURS

“I do not believe
I have to wear this,” said D. B., looking down at her apron in disgust. A beaming pilgrim standing on the deck of the
Mayflower
was plastered across the front, along with the slogan “Your ship always comes in when you bake with Mayflower Flour!” “This is worse than that stupid donkey suit we had to put on for Halloween.”

She and Oz were standing on a platform in the Waldorf-Astoria's main ballroom. Behind them was a stove. In front of them was a worktable. Five other identical platforms were placed around the room. On each one stood another team of junior Bake-Off finalists and their assistants, all of them decked out in Mayflower Flour aprons. The adult finalists were in the adjoining ballroom.

Oz looked over at D. B. “I know what you mean,” he replied. “At least in the costume, nobody could see our faces.”

“Well they certainly can't miss our faces now,” snapped D. B. She pointed up at the giant TV screen that hung suspended above their work station. A camera on a tripod at the edge of the platform was trained on them, broadcasting their every movement to the crowd of attendees and judges that thronged the ballroom. Five other cameras and TV screens were positioned around the room to do the same for the other finalists.

“Is my head really that big?” D. B. complained, squinching up her face and watching as her TV self did the same.

Amelia Bean glanced over from where she stood talking with Oz's mother (outfitted today in another flowing caftan, this one black covered in constellations of sequined swirls and loops). She looked up at the screen and frowned, then reached over to adjust one of her daughter's braids.

“Mo-om!” protested D. B. “This is a Bake-Off, not a beauty contest!”

Oz smothered a grin. D. B.'s familiar fussing somehow made him feel better. At least they were in this together. It would be a whole lot worse if he had to face the sharks alone. Still, he wished Glory would hurry up. He glanced over toward the door, wondering when she and the others would arrive.

The door opened just then, but instead of his tiny colleagues, Jordan and Tank entered the ballroom,
reluctantly herded forward by their mothers. They, too, wore matching Mayflower Flour aprons. Jordan looked like he wanted to strangle someone, and Tank's face was as red as his hair.

“Shark alert!” Oz whispered, elbowing D. B.

“Smile for the camera now, Shermie!” said Tank's mother, prodding him up onto the platform beside Oz. Tank grunted. Pretending to stumble, he stomped on Oz's foot.

“Ouch!” said Oz. “What did you do that for?”

Tank, his back safely to his mother, glared at him. “You're going to pay for this, Chef Shamu,” he whispered, tugging on his apron. He turned and grimaced at his mother.

“Good boy,” cooed Mrs. Wilson, snapping a picture. “All of you, now!”

Jordan stepped up reluctantly beside his classmates. All four mothers whipped out their cameras to record the proud moment.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” came a voice over the loudspeaker. Every head in the room swiveled to see the man in the pilgrim suit standing at a podium in the far corner. “Finalists, are you ready?”

Oz glanced down at the table. Flour, sugar, eggs, canned pumpkin, chocolate chips. He ticked off the ingredients mentally, then looked up and nodded at a judge who stood in front of them with a clipboard.

“Let the Twenty-Fifth Annual Mayflower Flour
Bake-Off begin!” The man in the pilgrim suit banged a gavel down on the podium. The resulting crack was as loud as a gunshot, and Oz jumped. Loud music began pumping out over the speakers. The camera zoomed in. Oz prodded at his glasses and went to work.

“Flour!” he called, and D. B. handed him the Mayflower bag. Oz measured out two cups expertly and dumped them into the bowl in front of him. He quickly fell into a comfortable rhythm as one by one he called for the ingredients, and one by one D. B. handed them over. Cooking was as familiar to Oz as his own skin. Not that he'd ever let the sharks know that. They'd use it against him. Sharks always did.

He glanced over to where Jordan and Tank were standing, arms folded across their chests. They were scowling. He saw one of the judges shake his head and jot something down on his clipboard. Oz looked around the room. All the other assistants were busy helping. Like it or not, he had to get the sharks involved, or they'd lose the Bake-Off for sure. He turned to Jordan. “I need two eggs,” he said. “But they have to be beaten first. Think you can handle it?”

“Watch me,” smirked Jordan. He grabbed the egg carton away from D. B., plucked out an egg, and tossed it to Tank. Then he selected another for himself. Setting the carton down, he began to spank his egg. “Bad egg!” he said. The crowd giggled. “Must beat bad egg!” As the giggles turned to ripples of laughter,
Tank tossed his egg up and down casually, grinning at Jordan.

Uh-oh
, thought Oz.

The two boys started tossing their eggs back and forth like miniature footballs. The camera followed their every move. They continued to toss the eggs, higher and farther each time. The delighted crowd cheered at each successful catch. Slowly, inch by inch, Jordan and Tank moved closer to Oz.

“Such high spirits,” said Mrs. Wilson. She snapped another photo of her son just as the sharks moved in for the kill.

“Beat this,” sneered Jordan, and pretending to fumble the catch he squashed both eggs against the back of Oz's head.

“EEEEEEWWWWW!” cried the crowd.

“EEEEEEWWWWW!” cried Oz. He recoiled as the broken shells released their warm liquid onto his neck. The egg yolks slid under the collar of his shirt and trickled slowly and disgustingly down his back. Oz squirmed, revolted. The judge frowned, and made another notation on his clipboard.

“Bake-Off Boy goes
down
!” cried Jordan, tucking his hands into his armpits and strutting across the platform in a triumphant chicken dance. Tank crowed like a rooster, and the crowd laughed.

Oz looked over at D. B., who shook her head sadly. The morning was not off to a good start.

DAY TWO • WEDNESDAY • 1015 HOURS

“Hit it, boys,” said Glory.

Nutmeg brought his toothpick drumsticks down on his cymbals (foraged soup-can lids) with a crash.

“One! Two! Three! Four!” he cried. And then, tail tapping behind him, head bopping to the vigorous beat, he launched into the spirited lead-in to the Steel Acorns' number-one hit, “Born to Shake My Tail.”

The opening chords from Lip's electric guitars and Romeo's bass (tongue depressors wired for sound) filled the small practice room. Bunsen winced, and his pale paws crept up toward his ears. B-Nut motioned to his fellow band members to lower the volume.

“Just enough to cover our voices,” he said.

Bananas Foster might be her brother's friend, but Glory was taking no chances of being overheard, soundproofing or no soundproofing. She didn't want anything to jeopardize the mission. Too much was at stake.

Before Glory could bring the meeting to order, the door to the practice room burst open and a tall, good-looking field mouse swaggered in.

“Let the party begin!” he cried.

Glory sighed. “Hello, Hotspur,” she said without enthusiasm.

Bunsen watched in alarm as Hotspur looked Glory up and down and whistled appreciatively. “Silver Skateboard status must agree with you, Morning Glory Goldenleaf,” he said. “You are positively glowing. ‘Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty,' as the Bard would say.”

Glory sighed again. She'd forgotten Hotspur's habit of spouting Shakespeare.

Julius's nephew turned to B-Nut. “Good to see you, too, dude,” he said. “And these must be the Steel Acorns I've been hearing so much about.”

Without pausing their strumming and drumming, Lip, Romeo, and Nutmeg each gave him a polite nod.

Hotspur's eyes narrowed as he spotted Bunsen. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“This is Bunsen, our newest field agent,” said Glory.

“Since when?” asked Hotspur rudely, casting a dubious glance at Bunsen's slim white form.

“Since Halloween, when Julius promoted him.”

“My uncle promoted a
lab mouse
to field agent?” Hotspur replied with a sniff of disapproval. “He must be losing it.” He reached out and squeezed Bunsen's
slender bicep. “You lab mice may have the brains, but you hardly have the brawn for this line of work.”

Bunsen's whiskers wilted at these withering words.

“Bunsen Burner is one of the bravest mice I know,” Glory retorted, rushing to her colleague's defense. “Why, if it weren't for him and B-Nut, my ears would have been nailed to Dupont's wall of trophies last month for sure.”

Hotspur shrugged. “If you say so,” he said, unconvinced. He flexed his own bicep and gazed at it admiringly.

“Sit down, Hotspur,” said Glory sharply. “We have work to do. Where are the MICE-Six agents, by the way?”

“Bubble and Squeak?” Hotspur replied. “I left them back at Grand Central. Figured it would be better to keep them on Stilton Piccadilly's tail.”

“But I specifically requested that everyone rendezvous here!” protested Glory.

“What difference does it make? We can bring them up to speed later.”

What difference does it make?
thought Glory furiously. This was exactly what she'd been afraid of. Hotspur Folger was already throwing his weight around, trying to undermine her authority. If she didn't nip this in the bud, next thing she knew he'd be trying to take over the mission. Her mission.

“From now on, you follow orders,” she said sternly. “My orders.”

“Whatever you say, Boss.” Hotspur yawned. “Sorry,
still a little jet-lagged. That red-eye's a killer. Of course, I should be used to it now, what with all that time I spend chasing rats across Europe.” He flashed them a broad smile. “London, Paris, Rome—it's a tough job, but someone's got to do it.”

Behind Hotspur's back, Glory caught her brother's eye. She grasped the tip of her tail in both paws and chomped on it in mock exasperation. B-Nut smothered a grin. Hotspur could always be counted on to brag about his exploits.

“Well, now that we're all here . . . ” Glory began. “Almost all of us, that is”—she glared at Hotspur, who smirked—“I want to lay out our plan. You've got our listening post up and running, right, Bunsen?”

“Except for the video feed,” Bunsen replied. “There's a bug in the system I'm trying to work out.”

“Keep at it,” said Glory. “B-Nut, you, Hotspur, the Acorns, and I are scheduled to rendezvous in Grand Central at noon with Oz and D. B.—”

“Who?” asked Hotspur, frowning. “I don't recall any agents by those names.”

Glory gave him a speculative glance. Should she tell him about the children now, or let him find out for himself? She decided to let him find out for himself. A bit of a shock might do old Snotspur a world of good. “You haven't met them yet,” she said simply. “They're new. Julius hired them after you went overseas.”