The Mabel Who Knew Too Much

Chapter 11: To Catch a Thief

A Flashback to Friday, July 26, 2013: "This is Northby, sir. Your cousin, Northby Northwest, the late Baring and Brenda's son," he said into the phone. Stupid old device. His grandfather never took to modern electronics. This instrument had to plug into the wall by means of a cord, and the receiver weighed about a pound! And you had to dial it with an actual circular dial punctured by ten holes! Primitive!

"Yes, sir," he said to Preston Northwest away out there in Oregon. Northby sat at his grandfather's ornate desk in his elaborately baroque (but, since the books had been bought just for ornamentation, completely useless) library. He could gaze out the arched window and see, down a steep grassy hill, the Hudson River gliding past, heading south toward Manhattan. A few miles north of him was West Point, where stupid old Grandfather Benjamin had once proposed he be educated. As if.

"Yes, well, that's what I'm calling about," Northby said smoothly when Preston allowed him to get a word in. "My grandfather Benjamin passed away suddenly last week. No, it was very unexpected. No, he wasn't sick. It was an accident involving a bear. On his estate."

Ha! Estate. That was a joke. After living far too long and spending far too much of his savings, old Grandpop had been forced to sell off more than a hundred acres of what had been a 112-acre expanse. Now practically next door to the mansion, a construction crew was putting up a housing development.

And old Benjamin Northwest's lawyers had already told Northby that after everything was settled, he would come out of it with only a hundred thousand. Maybe three hundred more if he could sell the ridiculous old house and the remaining twelve acres for that much, though the market was weak. And his two thousand a month from the trust fund that his father had set up for him would evaporate when he turned twenty-one, in a little more than two and a half years.

Chicken feed. Northby wanted to live in a style to which he would become accustomed, and that meant he needed serious money. He had his eye on millions.

He said into the phone, "We don't understand it either, sir. He always took a stroll early every morning along the bluff overlooking the river. He must have come upon the bear and startled it. It attacked, and poor Grandfather tried to run but fell to his death. A jogger witnessed the whole thing and reported it to 911 on his mobile phone, but of course it was too late. The bear? Odd thing, it fled back into the brush. They could find no trace of it. When they recovered Grandfather's body, they came to the house to tell me. I was just getting out of bed, and they broke the tragic news to me."

Just getting out of bed. That had been his excuse. The jogger had not been part of the plan at all, and he'd had to hustle to hide himself and transform back into his human shape before fleeing to the house.

The trouble was that the jogger had startled him, and as a bear he'd had trouble thinking through the repercussions of transforming back a few hundred yards from the house. True, he was human again. However, he was also naked.

That meant darting from bush to bush—he didn't dare transform twice in one day, that was supposed to be incredibly dangerous. Finally, Northby had reached the back of the house, and risking discovery, he'd run stark naked across the yard to his room, where he'd left a window open, and he grabbed a robe inside, but he'd barely wrapped himself in it before the doorbell rang.

He'd barely had time to shove his muddy feet into slippers before going to answer the insistent ringing.

To Preston Northwest, he said, "Thank you sir, but no. Perhaps a discreet donation to his memory might be in order. Oh, I'd say the Wexham Society, sir. It's a small educational foundation dedicated to research." Into unholy subjects, of course, he added mentally, with a wicked grin. "I could send you the address."

Then, through clenched teeth, but maintaining a smooth tone, he flat-out lied: "No, he left me well off. Well, I'm rather at loose ends as to what to do, sir. I thought I might travel out to Oregon to visit your family, in fact. I have no close ties here any longer. My mother and father died when I was twelve, I have no siblings, and Grandfather was my last living close relative. Well, thank you very much, sir. I was thinking perhaps next week. A renovated farmhouse sounds delightful. Yes, I can't wait to meet my young cousin Pacifica. Thank you, sir, and I'll be in touch."

He hung up the phone, leaned back in his grandfather's creaking chair, and picked up a sheaf of printouts. His cousins out west were truly his only remaining relatives. Well, they were if you didn't count the ones in Massachusetts and Connecticut, but they were all—ugh—middle-class, master carpenters and office workers and such, so you really shouldn't count them. According to the information he'd dug up, Preston Northwest was worth perhaps eight million dollars, if you counted his business, which appeared to be flourishing again after a prolonged downslide.

Too bad he hadn't been able to tap into that last year, when the fortune had been double or triple that, at least—but anyhow, the business was looking healthier than it had in a few years.

Better, as far as he could discover, Preston Northwest had not—yet—made out a will. If his dear daughter died suddenly in a bizarre accident, however, it might be easy to persuade him to change that . . . and if he, Northby, settled in and offered staunch comfort and support to the grieving couple—he grinned. Of course, he would become an heir.

Only if Preston died without making a will first, Priscilla would inherit it all, under Oregon law. And if Preston died tragically, then perhaps Priscilla would respond to the romantic comfort of a much younger man. After all, she wasn't really related to him . . . and if he married her, it wouldn't last long. Because she wouldn't, either.

If such a development did not appear practicable, the tragic accident could easily kill both of them. And he would be on the spot as the last living relative, so—it all worked out.

He stretched. Controlling the movement of animals was one thing. It took concentration and left him feeling weak and disoriented for a day or two. Invisibility was more troublesome—headaches and dizziness for three days afterward. Entering the mind of an animal, while his own body fell into a coma-like trance, was still worse and resulted in migraines for a week.

But actual transformation, shapeshifting into the form of an animal, that was hardest of all, and its after-effects the worst. Even now, after more than a week, he'd still catch his fingernails trying to elongate into bear claws. And the dreams, the dreams, the bad, bad dreams of blood and death and the taste of human flesh—

No matter. This next escapade would settle him, and he wouldn't have to use the Ring and the Stone ever again.

Unless, of course, some fool got in his way.


The group in the conference room looked appalled as the Professor finished his summary of Northby Northwest's activities and suspected plans.

For a meditative moment, the Professor gently tapped on his teeth with the mouthpiece of his pipe. "In short," he told the group, "We feel certain that Northby Northwest was responsible for the murder of his friend Charles Thursby in England and for the death of his own grandfather in upper New York State. He killed them both by means of the Seal of Solomon and the Stone of Summoning."

Ford said, "You seem to take the supernatural in stride."

With a shrug, the Professor said, "Well, Dr. Pines, when you've seen as much as I have seen, it becomes easier to do so. We have been on the trail of Mr. Northwest ever since the theft year before last of the Ring of Solomon from the Museum of Antiquities. We suspected he had taken it, but had no proof. At first we thought we could wait him out until he attempted to do something with it, to sell it I mean, since weren't unduly concerned—to use the ring for more than simple aggregating of large numbers of animals or birds, one needs the Stone of Summoning. We had no idea that artifact still existed or where it might be—but then our agents in England, assigned to follow Northwest, discovered the nature of his researches."

"And ya bugged his phone, didn't ya?" Stan asked.

The Professor's old face creased in a rather evil smile. "As a matter of course, Mr. Pines. That's how we learned that he was abruptly dropping out of Oxford and returning to the United States. And how we knew he was systematically checking into the net worth first of his grandfather and then of Mr. Preston Northwest. When he began to look into Miss Pacifica's habits, friends, and routines, we realized she was very probably the next victim on his list."

"Ew," Pacifica said, wrinkling her nose. "That's, like, insulting!"

"We had already noted the death of Mr. Thursby as highly indicative of the Seal's power. We realized the danger to the Northwest family in Gravity Falls and moved to protect them. Agent Powers consulted Mrs. Northwest in the Mall and gave her persuasive proofs that this cousin was not to be trusted. In order to shield her daughter, Mrs. Northwest cooperated with our ruse. We arranged for Miss Northwest to enter protective custody and set up a scenario in which it would appear that she had, for reasons unknown, leaped or fallen to her death."

Everyone looked at Pacifica. She sighed in an annoyed way. "Okay, so, like, they had this life-sized mannequin of me? And they dressed it to look just like me. I was supposed to be on the tower, and the EMT's would call my father, and he would drive there in time to see me fall—but I was supposed to hide on the opposite side before I tossed it over, and the EMT's would crowd around the mannequin and take it away before Dad got a look at it. But then Mabel showed up!"

"I'm sorry, Pacifica," Mabel said. "I just thought you were in trouble, 'cause I didn't know what was going on!"

Pacifica rolled her eyes. "So, anyway, I like panicked and threw the mannequin over or whatever, and then climbed up the ladder and lowered myself into the tank, but I slipped and had to swim over to the ladder in my clothes and hang on there until I heard the sirens. The EMT's finally showed up, and they gave me a jumpsuit and I came down disguised."

"Just as my nephew Dipper deduced," Ford said, sounding proud.

"From that moment on, we were improvising to buy time," the Professor went on. "We thought this sudden, ah, 'accident' would jolt young Northby. We knew he would want time to pass before he moved against Preston Northwest—otherwise he would attract unwanted attention. Now we are faced with how to trap him while he has both the ring and the stone on his person—and how to prevent him from using them against our men."

Surprisingly, Wendy spoke up: "Hey, wouldn't it be, like, an incredible shock to him if today Pacifica turned up alive? That oughta make him think twice about offing the other Northwests."

The Professor nodded. "Superficially, yes, that sounds like a possibility. However, we don't want to risk Miss Northwest's life. This young man is ruthless, without conscience."

Mabel said, "What if somebody looked like Pacifica? If she could fool him at a distance, you guys could be ready with a cage or something that she could hide in if he summoned birds or animals, right?"

"That is a thought," the Professor said.

"Ta-da!" Mabel said. "Here I am! Pacifica and I are about the same height. Just get me clothes like hers and a blonde wig—"

"Hold on, hold on!" Ford said, just as Stan said, "Wait a minute!" and Dipper yelled, "No!"

Pacifica looked intrigued, though. "You know, we could dye your hair blonde—and Dipper's too, so he'd match—"

"No," Dipper said flatly.

"It might work," the Professor murmured. "I believe he might lose control if he thought he'd been outsmarted. And we could do everything in our power to assure Miss Pines of a place of safe retreat."

There was a fair amount of grumbling and dissension, but the group slowly came to agree with Mabel's idea. Still, both great-uncles held out for a long time. Finally, Stan muttered, "Only if we could lure this mook to a spot where Mabel would be most secure. And I think I know just the place. Poindexter, you got any woo-woo tech that might protect our side?"

Ford looked thoughtful. "I think I just might be able to work something up. And I believe my laboratory is in the same place you're thinking of. One other thing." He glanced at the Professor. "For various reasons, my skills and knowledge have become rather rusty over the past few years. I'll need some help. Professor, do you recall a student named Fiddleford McGucket?"

"Played the banjo as I recall," murmured the Professor. "A gifted young man with robotics and electronics. If he would be an asset, consult him by all means."

For a few moments there was silence. Stan broke it. "Well, somebody's gotta say it," he announced. "It's an obligatory trope, ya know."

Ford blinked. "Stanley! You amaze me."

"So I'll say it," Stan continued. "It's a crazy plan—but it just might work!"


As they drove in the van toward the Shack—Soos and his family, Mabel, Wendy, and Dipper, that is, since Stan and Ford had peeled off in the El Diablo to collect McGucket—Wendy kept smiling at Dipper. Not until they'd reached the Shack and stepped out of the van, though, did he get a chance to ask her why.

"Let's walk out to the bonfire clearing," Wendy said. They didn't exercise, but just strolled. When they reached it, Wendy glanced back. The agents in charge of the van, along with Mabel and their friends, had all gone inside. Then Wendy said, "Dip, man, I gotta say you surprise me sometimes. You givin' your vest to Mabel back there—that was sensitive of you, dude."

Dipper exhaled. He'd been worried it would be a lecture about Pacifica and her—frankly annoying—crush. "Aw," he said, "she's really embarrassed about, you know . . . developing. Mom bought her training bras, but she hardly ever wears them because her sweaters cover everything up. These turtlenecks are thin." He grinned self-consciously and rubbed the back of his neck. "But by the way, if it's not offensive, I just gotta say you look great in yours."

"Yeah?" Wendy grinned. "I know where Mabel's comin' from though. I feel out of place. I'd hate to climb a tree in this thing! You, though—promise me when you get to college you won't wear turtlenecks, OK?"

"I look that dorky, huh?" he asked as they started to walk to the Shack, holding hands.

"Nope," Wendy said casually. "It's just that you'd have the girls climbin' all over you. You actually look kinda hot!"

They walked in through the gift shop, where Mabel was feeding Waddles. Ordinarily the pig stayed outside for this ritual these days, since he had grown so much and was a sloppy eater, but Dipper gathered that he had special dispensation after having been separated from Mabel overnight.

Mabel looked up from scratching the pig's ears. "Man," she said, "it must be seriously hot outside. Dip, I think you got sunburned!"

"Maybe," Dipper said. Wendy nudged him, and he grinned self-consciously. "Yeah, my face feels a little hot!"

In the early afternoon the Stans and McGucket appeared, the latter with his box of tricks. "He may have magic," McGucket said with a hint of his old-timey hillbilly accent, "but on our side we got science! By cracky!" And he did a little hamboning to top off his remark.

And so as the afternoon came on, they began to work on their trap.