Bonnie of Evidence - By Maddy Hunter Page 0,24
famous, we’re going to have to know how to download the tape to the computer so we can post it on YouTube.”
Dad nodded his agreement, apparently delighted by the idea. “What’s YouTube?”
“It’s little videos of people’s pets, weddin’ receptions, and summer vacations,” said Nana as she set the camcorder back on the table. “Kinda like TV shows what forgot to add plots.” She pressed the Play button.
I squeezed Dad’s arm and held my breath, beside myself with excitement.
Pavement. Shoes. Dad’s shoes. Dad’s shoes standing on the pavement. Car engines revving in the background. Voices. A horn tooting. Dad’s shoes walking over the pavement. Over a curb. Over a crack in the pavement. Past a patch of grass.
I squinted at the screen, waiting for the money shot. “Obviously not the monster yet.”
Dad looked perplexed. “Did I shoot this? I’m going to have to work on content.”
Bluejeans. Dad’s bluejeans. Dad’s bluejeans standing on a bridge with the sounds of rushing water below.
“That’s gotta be the bridge what we seen in Braemar,” said Nana. “You can tell on account of it sounded like we was standin’ on Niagara Falls.”
Dad gaped at the screen, looking more confused by the minute. “Where’s my footage of Nessie?”
“It’s probably there someplace,” I encouraged as we were treated to a stationary image of the floral upholstery covering the back of our bus seats. “I bet you just got a little mixed up in these shots and switched the camera off when it was supposed to be on, and on when it was supposed to be off. This happens to everyone when they’re using a new camcorder for the first time. Doesn’t it, Nana?”
She stared at me as if I had two heads.
“You just wait and see,” I continued. “You probably got yourself back on track without even knowing it.”
Green screen. Bouncing green screen. The sleeve of Dad’s green John Deere jacket. Dad swinging his hand back and forth. Dad making me dizzy with the back and forth thing.
Okay then. Big negatory on the getting back on track theory.
“Dang. This is brutal,” said Nana as she pressed the Fast Forward icon on the touchscreen.
Bricks. A brick walkway. Dad’s shoes running on the brick walkway. Panting. A hideous bubbly, gurgling noise that sounded more ferocious than the dreaded screech of a prehistoric raptor.
“Ohmigod!” I cried. “Was that Nessie? Is that what she sounds like?”
Dad shook his head. “It’s my stomach. I’m pretty hungry.”
Blue screen.
I looked at Nana, startled. “That’s it?”
She picked up the camcorder and punched Fast Forward, to no avail. “That’s it. End of tape.”
“The end?” Dad sat bolt upright in his chair, as if electrified. “But it can’t be the end. Where’s Nessie? I got a clear shot of her. I know I did. I even zoomed in for a close-up.” He took the camera from Nana and snugged his eye against the lens. “She’s gotta be in here somewhere.”
“It’s like Emily said,” Nana agreed. “You was in Standby mode when you was s’posed to be recordin’, and you was recordin’ when you was s’posed to be in Standby. User error.” She slapped him on the back. “It’ll getcha every time.”
“But if you saw her once, there’s an excellent chance you might see her again,” I chirped in an attempt to cheer him up.
He nodded in slow motion, face glum, voice dispirited. “I suppose.” He set the camera down in front of himself and patted it wistfully. “She had lovely eyes for a monster.”
“Found it!” whooped Mom. She popped out of her chair and rushed over to us, gripping a small booklet in her fist. “I said a prayer to Saint Anthony. Works every time. So—” She was all smiles and beatific joy as she clutched the manual to her bosom. “Do you have something to show me?”
A troupe of wait staff paraded into the dining room at just that moment, laden with trays that smelled suspiciously like dinner. Greeted by an empty dining room, however, the lead waiter slowed his steps in apparent confusion, which caused the waiter behind him to pull up short, the waitress behind that guy to lose control of her tray, and the last guy in line to run full speed into her back, setting into motion the mother of all chain reactions.
BOOM! Cruuunch. Clatter, clatter, tinkle.
Plates somersaulted upward, then down. Trays fell. Food spilled. China shattered. The door to the kitchen banged open, spewing out a handful of startled cooks in chefs’ hats and aprons.
“Ooh yah cun’!” shouted one, hands clapped to