The Case of the Lost Lollipop Form

The Office of Candy Collections is at 31 Pumpkin Patch Plaza, at the top of three flights of stairs that smell of toffee. That is where the Candy Tax Commissioner works. He is a round, tidy man with a waistcoat the colour of butterscotch, and in the pocket of that waistcoat he always keeps one butterscotch lollipop, for emergencies.

On the wall behind his desk hangs a glass frame. Inside the frame is the most treasured paper in the whole Parental Revenue Service. It is Form L-1, the Lollipop Exemption, and it says, in curly brown ink, that the first lollipop of every child’s Halloween is free of tax, forever.

On Halloween morning, a letter arrived for the Commissioner. It was written in purple crayon. Dear Commissioner, it said. Is my first lollipop still free? From Sam, age 6.

“An excellent question,” said the Commissioner. “We shall check the original.” He lifted the frame down from the wall, took out Form L-1 and laid it on his desk. Then, so that he could smooth it flat with both hands, he took the emergency lollipop out of his pocket and put it down for a moment, right on top of the form.

Just then, the pumpkin telephone rang.

It was the Costume Inspector, asking whether a horse costume with two people inside it counted as one costume or two. The Commissioner gave a very careful answer, which took eleven minutes. When he had hung up, he picked up his lollipop, popped it back into his waistcoat pocket, and turned to the desk.

Form L-1 was gone.

“Dottie,” called the Commissioner. Dottie was his junior clerk. She was very small, with two neat buns and a magnifying glass on a ribbon. “Dottie, the Lollipop Exemption has gone missing.” Dottie gasped, and the Commissioner gasped again, to keep her company.

They searched the filing cabinet, in the drawer marked Lollipops, Liquorice and Lost Things. They looked under the tea trolley, which squeaked. They looked inside the Commissioner’s hat, where they found a paper clip and a peppermint from last year, but no form. Dottie even climbed the ladder to the top shelf and checked Volume Nine of the Candy Tax Code, which is all about toffees and is very boring indeed.

“This is most irregular,” said the Commissioner, sitting down heavily. “Without Form L-1, every first lollipop in the land must be counted and weighed and assessed. Children will have to fill in forms before they can even unwrap them. And Sam is waiting for an answer.” He put his head in his hands, and as he did, something in his waistcoat pocket went crinkle.

Dottie looked at the pocket. She looked at the Commissioner. She held up her magnifying glass. “Commissioner,” she said politely, “your lollipop is wearing a form.”

And so it was. Form L-1 had stuck to the back of the butterscotch lollipop, and it had been riding around in the Commissioner’s pocket the whole time, like a small flag on a very sweet ship. The Commissioner peeled it off, very slowly, with the tip of a letter opener. Only one corner stayed a little bit sticky.

“Hmm,” he said, holding it up to the light. “A butterscotch seal. If anything, it is more official than before.” He put the form back in its frame and hung the frame back on the wall, very straight.

Then he dipped his pen and wrote a reply. Dear Sam, I have checked the original. Your first lollipop is exempt. Please enjoy it slowly. He stamped the letter Exempt, With Pleasure, and Dottie ran it down the stairs to the post.

That evening, the lamps went out one by one along Pumpkin Patch Plaza. The Commissioner sat in his armchair at home with a cup of warm milk and his slippers on. His emergency lollipop was back in his waistcoat pocket, with nothing stuck to it at all. He checked twice.

And across the town, in a quiet bedroom, Sam was asleep after a long night of trick-or-treating. On the windowsill, one lollipop waited for tomorrow, still in its wrapper, and entirely, officially free.