Chapter 10: "We're Coming Too!"

Only a desperate survival instinct allowed me to dodge in time, and as I ducked the bullet sailed over my head and through a soggy sphere of dough that had been falling from the ceiling just above me. I dove off to the side in case he fired again, but the chef actually looked surprised by my appearance. He hefted the gun back into a straight-up-and-down position, scratching the head beneath his immense torque-blanche. "Yorn desh born dee poppity-poppity?" he asked as I cautiously stood back up. "Yersh dee bornen dee yorn der moo-fin," the chef continued, striding over and picking up the impaled dough. He stuck his finger through the hole. "See? Do-nut."

I was still very much in shock over my being shot at, so I had no idea what to say to this. Only by paying special attention could I interpret the chef as asking why I'd come in while he was shooting, and that he'd been aiming at the "muffin" to make it into a doughnut. I just stared wide-eyed at the musket in his hands, which prompted him to say, "Yorn du sverr de geurin, Mees Peeppers."

It surprised me that he had remembered my name, but I was so dazed over the whole thing that I just made my way out of there in no time flat without even thanking him for the apology. I was sure that my hair was standing straight up from the scare, and I was so bewildered that my first words when I ran into Wayne and Wanda in the hallway were, "Did you know that the chef has a musket?"

They just looked at me. "Of course!" Wayne exclaimed simply. "Why wouldn't he?"

———

STATLER: Yeah, why WOULDN'T he?

WALDORF: I dunno. I could never tell what he was saying.

STATLER: Maybe...maybe he's a SECRET AGENT from Sweden! He's trying to blend in with the culture by becoming a cook! And he has a musket—maybe HE'S the murderer! It must be some sort of secret Swedish plot to take over the government, starting with bumping off the eagle as a trial run! And then the Chef will kill the president and declare himself the dictator, and we'll all be forced to speak in that Swedish gibberish and EAT HIS COOKING!

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

WALDORF: If I was him, I'd start by taking over the Board of Health so I wouldn't be condemned for what I was cooking.

STATLER: Yeah...actually, that's more likely.

———

My head cleared at that point, and I was sensible enough to realize that I had now found Wayne and Wanda and I could get on with my interrogation. Adjusting the collar of my trenchcoat and smoothing my hair back down, I asked, "So...Wayne and Wanda. Where were you when I was looking for you?"

The two looked at each other excitedly. "Oh, WAYNE!" Wanda cried, before turning to me. "You really mean it? Are we going to be big stars?"

If the "Michelle Oznowicz" sequence hadn't occurred just recently, I would've been wondering what they were talking about. "Sorry, guys, I'm not a record-company person or anything," I explained, and their faces fell. "You should know me; you should certainly remember my voice from the telephone."

Wayne and Wanda exchanged inscrutable glances. "...Ms. Pepper?" Wayne finally ventured.

"In the skin," I replied. They glanced at each other again. They were certainly looking guilty of something, and perhaps that "something" had to do with Sam...

"Wh-what're you doing here?" asked Wayne, his voice shaking notably. He was wearing a Napoleon-esque costume complete with a big blue general's hat, which surprisingly didn't do very much to lighten the mood. "You talked to us on the phone. I thought you'd heard all you needed to."

"Not quite." I decided to play it cool. Unlike one Eddie Valiant, I knew that if I came straight out with my questions they had a fair chance of lying. "Just a common courtesy call so you could explain your reasons for hanging up on me."

I had expected wild denials and hectic tale-weaving, but Wayne and Wanda got the drop on me by playing it cool too. "That wasn't us," Wanda stated. "Gonzo just showed up out of nowhere and hung up the phone before beating on it with a baseball bat." She handed me a very dented, beaten-up piece of sports equipment to prove it. "Then he said something about 'leaving dangerous objects hanging around.' I dunno what it was all about."

OK, well, their story was more than likely if that had been The Great Gonzo who'd walked into the telephone after the Chief had left to get Wayne and Wanda. Come to think of it, that had sounded like his voice too. But their strange behavior had started before that...maybe it was time for money talk again. "I just thought, after your reaction to my assumption of your higher salary—"

I was taken by surprise again as the two once more played it completely cool. "What reaction?" Wayne asked. He looked around at Wanda confusedly. "Wanda, did you notice a reaction when Ms. Pepper asked about our money situation?"

"No I didn't, Wayne," she replied, equally innocent. It sure didn't seem like a front to me, but then I was the one who had the penchant for misgauging clients' backgrounds and employment in a single glance. "I don't know what you're talking about, Ms. Pepper."

Inspiration hit me. "I'd like to see your money records, then," I shot back triumphantly. I had them now. If I could check their balance, I'd be able to tell where they were. They wouldn't have had time since my appearance to fabricate a fake record, so I'd know exactly why they were so dodgy about their financial situation with Sam! It was genius, I congratulated myself. Sheer wit, certain victory, all-encompassing—

"Er, Ms. Pepper," Wayne said hesitantly, "this is a Muppet establishment. We don't keep bank records."

I blanked out for a moment before my heart dropped fifty feet. Dang it, it was true. I'd gotten so wrapped up in my theatrical last-minute-save act that I'd forgotten the things that differentiated Muppet communities and businesses from the rest of the world's. Of course they didn't keep any sorts of records of their balances, Muppets always naturally trusted each other and everyone else! Whether on a subconscious level or not, every Muppet in existence always thought of everyone else to be as truthful as themselves. But then, with all this business of Sam's demise, and that only Muppets themselves know how to kill a Muppet...well, in this day and age, maybe some of the race had soured. The rest of the universe certainly had.

———

STATLER: Like US!

———

I was interrupted in the middle of my uncharacteristically philosophical thoughts by a tugging on my trenchcoat. I looked down, expecting with some nervousness to see Fozzie there again, but it was a chicken instead. It might have been the same chicken as before, but how could I tell? They don't exactly wear nametags. It had part of my coat in its beak, and it was "brawk"ing past it at me urgently. I glanced at Wayne and Wanda, but they were just as in the dark as I was. I sighed. "Where's that 'Great Gonzo' when you need him?"

Just then, the character himself poked his head around an open door. "Hey, did somebody call?" he asked.

Wow, that was convenient. "Hey, uh, Mr. Gonzo—" I began, waving a hand at him.

"Aw," he insisted, venturing out into the hallway, "just call me 'Great'."

For my own dignity I ignored that remark. "Mr. Gonzo," I explained, "this chicken, here—" I broke off suddenly as I realized that the chicken had disappeared again. Well, not entirely. This time I at least saw it running down the hallway in the opposite direction. I turned back around as I heard Gonzo sigh.

"That was Camilla," he lamented. I noticed that he was wearing a purple tuxedo rather than his caped crusader getup of last night. "She's been avoiding me for weeks now, and she won't talk to me." Gonzo sighed, reminding me of a love-weary man I'd once known. His name to me had been "Dad".

"It looked like she had something important to say, though," Wanda interjected.

"Does it matter?" Gonzo replied woefully. He shook his head, sighing again. "She still won't come anywhere near me." Hanging his head, Gonzo started murmuring wistfully. "Camilla..."

Something clicked in my mind then, and I groaned. If she was avoiding Gonzo, and he was the only one who spoke chicken, I might never find out what this Camilla wanted to say. And you know how it is in all those movies, where it's always the one you think is just there to annoy you who has the important information you need to solve the case. Well, maybe I could take a night class in chicken. Yeah, and maybe the clock in Movin' Right Along will display the right time, I thought sarcastically.

This was all too much for me to digest right now. I needed to go clear my head for a while. So I left Wayne and Wanda, who'd already wandered off anyways, and went to leave. But almost all the doors in this place were identical, so I couldn't tell where the door was to the alley I'd entered through. Turning around in confusion, I spotted Gonzo again—but this time he was holding a bouquet of flowers and a heart-shaped box of chocolates. Who could he be giving them to? I wondered confusedly. Trying to make up with Camilla? In answer to my unspoken query, the guy literally waltzed right up to a very large, star-covered door, knocked twice and breezed right in. That door...I recognized it. But what was Gonzo doing in Miss Piggy's dressing room? With all that romance-y stuff to boot? Coming back to Earth, I berated myself with a slap to the forehead. What was I doing, all of a sudden trying to meddle in people's love lives? It was none of my business, just as it had been none of Floyd's business. If The Great Gonzo was courting Miss Piggy, that wasn't my affair—either way the phrase could be construed. Reaching in my pocket for a piece of spare change (I couldn't illegally hack a pay phone with cops all around), I instead withdrew the matches I'd found in Floyd's room. I reread the name. "Mr. Bassman: For Unemployed Musicians". I grinned sourly. I might just have something to do with my afternoon after all.

Before striking out to discover the location of Mr. Bassman, I headed back to the apartment for some supplies. If I had this place pegged correctly, they wouldn't let anyone in unless they were a musician—and a Muppet. That last part was a complication I was going to have to deal with, but I already had a semblance of a plot formulating in my brain. Now I just had to get home, and hope desperately that I hadn't actually gotten around to pawning my old acoustic guitar—it would be useful in the caper I was about to try and pull off. I considered calling The Muppetburg Times to inform Kermit and Fozzie about what I was doing, but I decided against it. For one thing I didn't want anyone to worry, for another thing I didn't want Foz to go outside anywhere without my supervision in case a cop was nearby, but most importantly I just didn't want to have to deal with Alice.

———

STATLER: Reason enough for anyone.

WALDORF: Huh? To do what?

STATLER: Look, if you're not going to pay attention to the story, you might as well stop reading it!

WALDORF: OK, if you say so...

. . . .

STATLER: Oh, get BACK here, you old fool! You can't let me suffer alone!!

———

I was just about halfway back to the flat when I realized that I was being followed. I could tell easily enough, considering I was a detective in Muppetburg, 'till now the safest, most law-abiding town in the world. But the sound of soft flip-flopping and shuffling of two Muppets' feet, as well as some urgent hushes hissed from twenty feet or more back, and feeling like someone was ducking out of the way every time I glanced over my shoulder—well, it was more than enough for me. Of course Muppetburg's streets are always crowded, they could've been following anybody, but still...

At the first possible chance, I stopped at a corner and skirted in front of a gaggle of passing Whatnots into a blind alley. Pressing myself against the side that was invisible from the direction I'd been coming from, I held my breath and waited. Sure enough, two pairs of feet stopped right in front of the alley, like the owners had lost something. I began to wonder wildly how the movie detectives had always managed to overcome opposition for anything, then figured that in broad daylight in a Muppet town, a bluff would hopefully be enough. So as soon as I was sure I'd pinpointed the exact location of the owners of the feet, I reached out from the alley and snagged them off the streets and inside. "Reach for the floor," I commanded in a low voice, sticking my finger in the small of one of their backs and hoping whoever it was thought it was a gun, "I've got you covered."

"Don't shoot!" a familiar voice cried out hysterically. I blinked.

"Foz?" I squinted in the dim light of the alley, making out the shaking silhouette beside my erstwhile client. "Kermit?"

Kermit had raised his head and looked around at me, quivering slightly. "Ph-ph-Phyllis?"

Meanwhile, Fozzie was still panicking like there was no tomorrow. "I'm too young to die!" he wailed, covering his eyes with his hands. "I haven't even done my 'Good Grief, the Comedian's a Bear' routine! It's too soon, it's too soon!"

"Uh, Fozzie..." Kermit began, relaxing only a little after recognizing me. But to no avail.

"I have to perform with Peter Sellers!" the bear was bemoaning, rather a bit too loudly for comfort. "And Avery Schrieber! And Peter Ustinov! Oh, I haven't even ever gotten back at those two old hecklers from the Theater!"

———

WALDORF: Look at us, we're famous!

STATLER: Yeah, but I was thinking...maybe we should stop heckling that guy.

WALDORF: What, and leave show business?

———

"Fozzie..." Kermit tried again, a little louder.

"And what about Bruce Forsythe? I've always wanted to perform with him since...since...since..." His internal processors had apparently had a spontaneous combustion. "Hey, who the heck is Bruce Forsythe anyways?"

It became one of those rare times when Kermit ever really raised his voice. "FOZZIE, WILL YOU JUST SHUT UP AND LISTEN?"

Immediately Fozzie stopped his jabbering, seeming to shrink almost to the ground and grabbed at the hem of Kermit's coat. "Oh, Kermit, froggy, sir, please don't—" In a split second he recognized me, and said, quite impressively I might add, "Uh-oh."

"That's not the half of it," I replied. Fozzie took off his bowler hat and held it in his hands, looking just the smallest bit frightened. I bent down to their level and narrowed my eyes. "Why were you following me?"

"It was his idea!" both of them replied at once, each pointing at the other. Then they got into a discussion over that, how it wasn't them but the other, which eventually ended up with both of them fed up with the whole thing. Finally, Kermit sighed and explained, "We were worried that you were going to go off and do something dangerous without telling us—"

"So you decided to join in for the ride?" I cut in sarcastically.

Fozzie, for some inexplicable reason, had just very quietly traded in his bowler for the little "Press"-sticker hat that Kermit had—while Kermit was still wearing it. Kermit hadn't even noticed. "Phyllis," Kermit insisted, his thin voice stretching into what was unmistakably his annoyed tones, "like it or not, we were worried about you. So—so stop pretending to be a lone wolf and accept it!"

I was taken aback by the ferocity of his statement, as well as the fact that he had actually thought that way. I realized, though, that it was kind of true—I was never really used to people being concerned about me, so of course I didn't act like I thought every one of my foolhardy actions mattered to someone else. But I was trying to keep them safe by not telling them, so they wouldn't go after me. It was a Muppet tendency to care, I knew that, but I didn't think that it might apply to them caring about me as well. Floyd certainly had never really showed that sort of affection, aside from cracking a smile at the troubles I had...and he was my cousin. Maybe...

"A 'lone wolf', Kermit?" Fozzie cracked with a huge smile. "But Phyllis is a human. How can she be a wolf?"

Rolling his froggy eyes, Kermit responded in the only way the situation allowed. "If she chased men all the time, she could be!"

That routine completely shattered the moment, but I wasn't complaining. All this philosophical thinking I was doing lately was giving me a headache. Seeing an opportunity, I tried futilely to see if I could circumvent them without their noticing so I could make my getaway. It didn't work.

"Phyllis," Kermit stated, his expression more set than it had ever been since I'd met him, "tell us where you're going. And then we're going with you."

"You can't—" I protested, but Kermit stopped me.

"Even if you tie us up," he proclaimed, his voice quivering a little in his determination, "we'll follow you. Because if you're going to risk your life, then we want the chance to possibly save it. No matter what."

I didn't know what to say to this. I mean, what would you say? When a Muppet—or in fact, anyone—says that sort of thing to you, just what is there to say in response? So I stood there, speechless, my breathing halted, my heart racing a mile a minute. I didn't want them to come with me on this sort of a mission, in case the police picked Foz up. But I didn't want to tell them that, in case they thought that I didn't care that they cared. ...If that last sentence made any sense. So I just sighed, and pulled out the matches. "I found these in Floyd's dressing room," I explained. Fozzie was looking at them interestedly—a bit too interestedly. I guess he wasn't related to Smokey. Kermit took the matches and inspected the packet.

"...'Mr. Bassman: For Unemployed Musicians'...?" he asked quizzically, looking back up at me.

Fozzie surprised us all by interjecting a comment. "Hey, I've heard of that!" he exclaimed, snatching the packet away from Kermit so he could see them himself. I looked at him in shock. "Yeah!" Foz continued. "This is that place that my ma told me about, and said 'If you have to go there, you're better off not being a musician'. I always wondered what she meant."

His words confused me. "What does that mean, though?" I asked. "Why would you rather give up music than go there?"

Fozzie thought long and hard about that for a moment, something that probably strained his cerebrum, then perked up again. Kermit still hadn't noticed that Fozzie was wearing his "Press" hat, nor that he was wearing Fozzie's bowler. "Well," Foz began, scratching his head, "Mom always said that if I had to go for some sort of home for out-of-work musicians, then that was an...I think she said, 'an obvious statement of my tal-ent and mor-als'," he finished, splitting the words "talent" and "morals" into individual syllables. He shrugged. "I didn't always understand Mom, but she was the greatest."

Then Mr. Bassman must have been like an illegal place for musicians who didn't make the cut, who, in other words, might not be very adept at their instruments. So what was Floyd, an amazing guitarist, doing there? Unless Sam wasn't giving him a steady enough paycheck to let him go anywhere else. But there might be something else to look up at this place...and I knew Kermit and Fozzie wouldn't let me go there alone, whether they were next to me or shadowing me. I sighed. "Are you guys sure that you don't want to stay home? It might be dangerous coming with me."

Both of them were set in their determination, even though their knees were knocking. "Phyllis," Fozzie stuck in, stuttering a little, "whether there's a rubber chicken or a knife in a bad guy's hand, I'm going with you."

"And I'm going too," Kermit proclaimed.

I stood stock-still for a moment, then—"All right," I exhaled, giving in. "As long as you don't mind getting your musical talent ridiculed."

Happy triumph colored Kermit's grin that shade of green that I envied he could achieve. Fozzie was also ecstatic, but I can't imagine that he could possibly have had a full grip on the danger in it. "But we'll have to head to the apartment first," I cut in. "Kermit, you still have that banjo, right?"

"Of course!" he replied. A faraway look invaded his eyes. "Oh, it's going to be great just using that thing again. It was a gift from my parents, back when we lived in the swamp. I wrote a lot of songs on that instrument..."

"You wrote songs?" I asked, incredulous. I'd never known that before.

"Yeah." His eyes were glazing over. "I submitted one to the paper, once. That's how I got my job at The Muppetburg Times. It was a piece called 'The Rainbow Connection'." He started humming a few bars, then shook his head. "But now I have no time to play that banjo."

A remembrance jolted me. "The Muppetburg Times?" I cried, snapping Kermit out of his sorrows. In my alarm I grabbed Kermit by the jacket. "Are you crazy? Your job! How'd you get out without being caught, or did you somehow manage to hypnotize your editor into letting you leave?"

Kermit seemed shaken, but I would be too if someone suddenly hauled me up a couple feet into the air and started yelling at me. "I told Mr. Zealand that it was 'field research'," Kermit explained awkwardly. "As long as I have an article for him, he won't argue."

All of a sudden Fozzie interrupted us. "Come on, let's go!" he called out, already starting to jog down the street towards the apartment. At first I just watched him going, then after I remembered to put Kermit down we ran after him.

"He's a pretty good bear," I commented. "Not that I'd tell him in so many words."

"Yeah," Kermit returned, then suddenly cried, "Hey, you give me back that hat!" before taking off down the street after Foz, who sped up, both of them laughing all the way.