Part Three
*Note: portions of the conversation below have been edited for clarity
Now this was a hotel room. And I wasn't paying for it, at least not yet.
My editor had been kind (possibly exasperated) enough to set me up for a weekend at the Sheldorf with only the fleeting hope that my intended guest would be able to spare me a window of his time. If he showed, I didn't know where he was going to sit, so I arranged the den area with as many options as I could think of. We had the couch, we had the table, we had some cushions on the floor. Suffice to say, I was giddy with excitement.
Tracking him down had been fairly easy, but getting through his people (talking animals have people) had been challenging to say the least. I understood their protectiveness, considering his fuzzy face was worth around a billion dollars in revenue. I'd been given a list of questions which were off limits, none of which I would ever have thought to ask until they told me not to, and instructed to expect him at any time over the next two days (meaning I might have had to snap into work mode at three in the morning).
I did think it was considerate of them to send over a large sample of the infamous box of bribery known as Scooby Snacks for me to use as an offering, which I was promptly pouring into a clear bowl. What was it about these things? They apparently had the power to coerce an otherwise rational soul into the gambling of one's life. I read through the ingredients on the box looking for something addictive like absinthe slipped in right after monosodium glutamate, but no answers there.
I'll admit, one thing that always struck me as a bit of a puzzlement was the fact that Scooby Snacks were never offered as an incentive for after you arm wrestled the sasquatch, they always served as a nudge out the door. I couldn't help but wonder if they somehow managed to activate the part of the brain which caused one to honor whatever verbal contract had just been made. Maybe Scooby Snacks should be required hors d'oeuvres at any political conference.
I actually had one up to my lips when I was startled by a knock on the door. I dropped the treat back into the bowl, vowing to never admit to what had nearly happened, and scurried across the room. I hadn't expected anyone to show up so soon, but I figured one of his people would want to coach me on etiquette for things like how to address him, how to shake hands, etc.
I pulled my hotel room door open and time stopped for me. He was sitting there in the hallway, with his huge tail wagging and a grin on his massive face that could probably meet my eye level if he stood up on his hind legs. My mouth opened on its own even if no sound came from it, and I could feel my eyes were tearing up ever so slightly.
"Scooby Dooby Doo!" he howled.
At that moment I stopped being a professional journalist and became a six year old standing in front of a familiar Great Dane. Without any conscious decision on my part I knelt down and put my arms around his big furry neck and hugged him. "Aw," I heard his friendly voice respond as a heavy paw touched my shoulder. There are some moments you don't realize you wait your whole life for.
The cost of this for me was a commitment to ghost writing (no pun intended) Scooby's memoirs. Assuming Scooby would agree to my pitch, it would mean a new source of revenue for his people, a percentage for my editor, he'd have his story published and I'd have my name in tiny print on the bottom of the cover. Who besides me wouldn't be happy with the arrangement?
An empty bowl of Scooby Snacks later, the two of us were pretty much on the same page regarding the book deal. I foresaw two potential issues. The first was that Scooby was so utterly agreeable that it would be hard for me to find those dramatic beats required for a typical reader. Not that I was worried about the thing selling; Scooby would have a built in audience and a talking animal's memoirs had never been done before so we had the luxury of pioneering a sub-genre. But it would ultimately be my reputation on the line if we just phoned it in, and I couldn't risk not giving my all. As such, I'd gotten Scooby to agree to a full chapter on Scrappy.
The other issue was going to be my ability to translate Scooby's speech mannerisms. Usually I was able to understand him, but I still had no idea what "Rozevrarera" was even after hearing him use the word at least three times.
But the meeting was so friendly and fun for me that after an hour and two pizzas (of which I think I had one slice) I was substantially more excited about the book writing process, not to mention the numerous future meetings Scooby and I would inevitably be having.
We were winding it down for the evening, and I'd nearly forgotten my original intent for speaking with him when Scooby nodded to me and said in his loveably gruff voice, "So anything else you want to know?"
"There is one thing if you don't mind."
"Nope." he smiled.
"I've spoken with both Velma and Shaggy already-"
"Raggy," he chuckled at the mention of his buddy's name.
"Shaggy had mentioned there was an unsolved mystery."
"There was?"
"Yeah, he called it the Spooky Soothsayer." The moment I said that name Scooby's recollection of the event caused him to whimper. I apologized quickly. "Was this a bad experience?"
Scooby bobbed his head. "Daphne was crying."
I blinked. "She was crying?"
"Uh-huh. Fred had to hold her."
"What was she crying about?"
"Ghost!" said Scooby like he was reliving it. I thought maybe I should drop the subject but I was already invested enough in this one mystery that it didn't feel right to back off.
"Can you tell me what happened?"
Scooby trembled, and I felt guilty for asking, but then in a flash he was on his feet leaning over me in a menacing pose while snarling. He treated me to a rather complicated pantomime of what I assume his encounter with the Soothsayer had been like. I couldn't really follow it all, and at one point when Scooby was up on the table waving his paws I had to chew back a laugh, but the performance finally settled when Scooby sank down behind the sofa, reaching upwards and growling, only to disappear into silence.
I pushed past my speechlessness. "So he went underwater?"
Scooby shook his head. "Melted."
"He melted? Into what?"
Scooby made a sweeping gesture indicating a large area of the floor. "Boiling."
"The Soothsayer fell in?"
"Uh-huh!" Scooby hopped back on the couch, and I recognized his account of the events was over.
I wasn't quite ready to process what it sounded like had happened. "Velma says Daniel was the Soothsayer."
"Uh-uh!" Scooby stood firm. "Ghost!"
"Oh my God," I muttered. If I was harboring the hypothesis that Velma's memory of the story had been flawed then I certainly had to accept the Scooby's may have been as well. In fact I was hoping for it, because I'd never considered the possibility that one of Mystery Inc.'s crooks in a mask had been killed during their investigation.
But as much as I hated to admit it, it made sense. Daphne crying, the gang not talking about it, no arrest being made. I figured it was possible Velma was in denial about the whole thing, but as enthusiastic as she'd been to show me her scrapbook it made more sense that she honestly thought she'd solved it.
Wait a minute, the scrapbook. Something about that whole encounter had struck me as odd and I couldn't pinpoint what it was until now. She hadn't known I was coming but she had the scrapbook sitting behind the counter of her shop ready to be pulled out on cue. I didn't know what it meant, but my gut told me that I was onto something important.
Scooby was still sitting across from me on the couch with his head cocked to the side, studying me curiously. I wasn't sure how long I'd zoned out.
"Sorry, just thinking."
He kept staring at me, not in an intimidating manner (I wouldn't peg Scooby as capable of that) but simply trying to understand something. I guess we were in the same van.
"What's in it for you?" he asked with an agenda free sincerity.
"Me?" I looked at that sweet canine face. "In what?"
"Soothsayer," he asked, "Why you want to know?"
What an odd question, I thought. But then I realized that it was a perfectly reasonable question, just not one that I was prepared to answer. Why was I doing this? For justice maybe? Yeah, that was an unrealistic stretch. Maybe because I felt like it needed to be done? Um, sure. If I had the slightest sense of altruism I'd be recycling.
"I guess," I took a long pause and Scooby patiently waited for me to find the next words. "I grew up watching the Mystery Machine travel across the globe, always showing up at the right place at the right time and doing the right thing and moving on to next adventure. And I saw how well you guys got along with each other even though you all had nothing in common outside of the shared experiences. I mean, you were the Breakfast Club in a van."
"Breakfast!" Scooby laughed. And I laughed. It was contagious.
"I wanted to be part of the gang. I imagined I would grow up and become somebody famous and then get to be a guest in one of the mysteries, you know, 'Today Scooby-Doo meets what-my-face in the Mystery of the Marvelous Monkey Mystic'. So when I bumped into Shaggy and I heard about one of the mysteries being unsolved I thought, this is my chance to be part of the gang."
Scooby smiled at me again. He got up ready to leave, but before heading for the door Scooby moved over to me, taking my hand palm-up and placing an object in it. Then he casually showed himself out, leaving me a little sad to see him go but secure in the knowledge that we'd be having many conversations in the future as the book developed.
Mostly I was feeling grateful, even honored by the gift he had left in my hand; a token of respect which I would keep and treasure for as long as I'd be able to; a single Scooby Snack.
Scooby Doo's Unsolved Mystery continues with Part Four: Fred's Trap.
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