The Toilet Paper Caper: Chapter 20
By: Terrye Turpin
Tags: Humor, Mystery, Writing Prompts, Fiction, Short Story

We thundered up the stairs inside the apartment building, me, the Whipple boys, Rebecca Darling, and dear old Dad. I followed the sound of violins and the sweet aroma of tobacco to an open door on the second floor. When I skidded to a stop in the doorway, the crowd behind me slammed into my back. I faced a tidy living room, complete with a crocheted afghan on the couch and a cross-stitched sampler over the fireplace. It read, “In Medias Res.”

First in line, I got an eyeful of the guy waiting for us.

“Larry?”

He looked pretty good for a guy in a moth-eaten lion suit. The last time I’d seen Lawrence “Larry the Lion” Pullman, he was in the audience while I wowed the crowd with my impression of Sinatra singing the Macarena.

“You were expecting maybe Sherlock Holmes?” Larry asked. He waved his stogie toward the group. Rebecca Darling gagged.

“What the crap are you smoking?” she asked.

“It’s just 100% El Producto, little darlin’” Larry answered.

“How d’you know my name?” Rebecca waved at the smoke.

“All right, enough with the gum flapping, I’ve got a case to wrap up,” I said.

“Sure, sure.” Larry picked up a remote. The violin clicked off, leaving us in silence except for the old geezers wheezing from the climb upstairs.

“I suppose you’re wondering…” Larry began.

“Can we cut the exposition and get right to the wrap up?” I asked. “I’m not even gonna ask how you ended up at the address in the back of a pulp magazine.”

Larry shrugged. “Don’t worry, the only loose ends we’ll leave here are the ones on my costume.” He waved his lion tail at us. “Here’s what we know — the subliminal message George and company planted back in 1999 came full circle in 2020 and helped bring on the toilet paper crisis.”

“Yeah, we got that. The Whipple consortium planned on raking in sweet profits from stock shares of the paper companies.” I turned to glare at the Whipples. “But I don’t get why Thaddeus here hired me to go back and stop George. If the plan was already in place, why did he want it stopped?”

“You’ve got some more time travel to piece that together,” Larry said.

“Great,” I said. “And how do I do that with a busted time travel machine? I don’t even know where we’re supposed to go. For a plot device you haven’t been too helpful.”

“You need to get somewhere?” he asked, “Why don’t you just click your heels together and blow?”

“Kansas and Casa Blanca?” I shook my head at the lion.

“All right, speaking of a plot device, you’ve got the missing part, right?”

I fumbled in my pocket and brought out the gizmo. Rebecca Darling reached for it, but I held it back. “Hold on there a minute, hot pants. Before we whisk off back to the future, I’d like a better clue about where we’re going.”

Larry spoke up. “I promised no loose ends. Of all the characters you’ve encountered, who is left for an encore?”

I looked over at Rebecca, and I swear a light bulb went on over her head.

“That’s better.” Dad strolled over from the light switch he’d just flipped. “Let me see the device and the part.”

After he fixed the device, I left dear old Dad with Larry, figuring he’d find his way home easier if he stayed in his own time zone. The Whipple trio and I headed back in time, to a place and date I realized I’d set in motion myself, back when I foretold Clarabelle’s future. When I told Rebecca our destination she nodded. “Makes sense, he’s Jimmy’s brother, and he fixed my Pinto once.”

We landed on the tree-lined street in sunny California, but thirty years after our first visit. No toilet paper decorating the yard now.

When Clarabelle answered the door, I felt I owed him an apology. “Look man, I’m sorry about the paunch joke, and the hair.”

The guy greeting us was a real sad sack. Imagine a balding, fat Hugh Hefner dressed in a silk dressing gown and velvet house slippers.

“It’s okay, the coeds more than make up for it,” Clarabelle said.

“I guess I owe you an explanation,” I began, but he motioned us inside.

“No explanation needed. You see, there’s nothing you can do. Not now.”

“You mean not in 2002 or not now as in right this minute?” I asked.

“He means not now, in 2002,” George said.

“Yeah, you’ve already planted that subliminal message, right? In the last commercial shot in 1999?” I asked.

I didn’t expect an answer, but one glance at the angry look on the older Whipple’s face and the guilty look on George’s mug and everything fell into place.

“You haven’t gone back yet! We’re here in 2002 but Whipple number one never planted that message.”

George nodded. “I’m happy here, in 2002. I’m not even alive in 2020, what do I care if Thad’s stock options pay off?”

“You little four-eyed weasel!” Thaddeus leaped toward his brother, while I shoved George behind me.

“Hey! No squeezing the Whipple!” I put my hand out to Thaddeus, palm up. “Would now be a good time to collect my fee?” I asked. “After all, I did find George, it’s not my fault he didn’t follow up with the toilet paper scam.”

While Thaddeus huffed, and puffed, Rebecca scooted over to link her arm through Clarabelle’s. The pair looked a little too happy for my taste, and that’s when I remembered we were still missing one more character — the man who’d set the whole scheme in motion.

“All right, spill it,” I said, “Where’s Jimmy?”

“He should be arriving any moment,” Clarabelle said.

“From where? Or should I ask from when?”

Rebecca laughed. “How does 2032 sound to you? Nostalgic yet?”

Of course! We’d arrived here in 2002, right as Jimmy was cruising in from the future, to grab George and go back to 1999 to create the subliminal message that would create the toilet paper run in 2020. I felt woozy. It was either from trying to keep up with the plot twists or a late reaction to Larry’s cigar.

A rumble sounded from the street outside. A powerful engine, definitely not Rebecca’s Pinto. Jimmy. He was here, and he had the time travel device that he’d either stolen or invented. The device I had in my pocket. Or did I?

I pulled the time travel machine out and held it up. The thing shimmered. I could see my hand through it. I had to think quick — not one of my strongest abilities. What had Larry said, back in 1982? Click your heels together and blow?

“There’s no place like home.” I clicked my heels and closed my eyes. Nothing happened. The rumble of the motor grew closer, then stopped. I heard a car door slam.

One last chance, I gathered all my breath and blew like I was trying to hit the legal limit on a breathalyzer. The world faded to black. I’d either passed out from lack of oxygen or hit a time warp.

When I came to, I was just where I’d wanted to be. Standing on Clarabelle’s drive, next to a silver Mercedes CL430 convertible. As far as machines went, the Beemer was one sweet Deus Ex Machina.

“I’m glad I didn’t curse you with a Kia,” I said, looking toward Clarabelle’s front door. I was at the right place, now I hoped I’d arrived at the right time, before Jimmy hopped in the BMW to cruise forward to 2032.

The front door opened, and Jimmy strolled out. He hummed “Days Go By” as he stepped off the porch. He froze when he spotted me by the car.

“What the…?”

I didn’t wait for the rest of the sentence. He’d left the keys in the Beemer, and a pair of shades hanging from the rearview. I tossed the time travel device in the passenger seat, hopped over the door frame, and fired that baby up.

The tires squealed as I turned the corner and left 2002 behind. I arrived back in 2020 with a silver convertible, a pair of Ray Bans, and — when I popped the trunk — enough toilet paper stashed to ride out a pandemic.

I kept the Beemer. Jimmy had been careless enough to leave a signed title in the glove box. I also kept the toilet paper, but I didn’t need it. Turns out wherever the Whipple gang landed they hadn’t had a chance to activate the paper scam.

Even though the Covid crisis was still in high gear when I arrived back at my office, I hoped we’d weathered the worst of it. Turns out I was wrong. I’d settled in my desk chair and reached for the bottle of single malt scotch when I realized what had changed. Instead of a full glass of that lovely amber liquid, I had to settle for a slug of tap water. While I was off chasing Whipples, some fool started a rumor that Scotch boosted your immune system.

Whatever. I had a new car, plenty of TP, and I discovered my favorite pulp magazine was back in business. Funny thing though, the most recent issue was missing pages. How would I ever find out the ending to The Case of the Missing Gazebos?

Thanks to all the great writers who stuck with us on Stark’s latest adventure.

If you want to read the whole tale, start here:

And if you’d like to help solve The Case of the Missing Gazebos, start here: