“I didn’t know that.” And then I remembered what I wanted to tell her. “Gram, Mr. Miles said that you and he once dated.”
She smiled. “I wouldn’t really call it a date. He was more interested in me than I was in him. You know how that is.”
Oh, brother, did I. That had been the case with Scarlett and me for as long as I could remember.
“I liked Thad. He was a nice enough guy, but a little too dramatic for me. He was onstage even when he wasn’t onstage. You know the type.” She flipped off the light in the garage. “Hey, you want to have a little fun with your mom?”
“Sure, I guess.” But I knew that whatever Gram had in mind, my mother would not be referring to it as fun.
I followed her back into the kitchen. She approached my mom, who was still preparing dinner at the counter. Gram pulled out her pad, ripped off a page, and presented it to my mom.
“What’s this?” she said.
“It’s a parking ticket. What does it look like?” Gram said.
“A parking ticket? For what?”
“I’m afraid you exceeded the four-hour parking restriction.”
My mom smiled. “The car’s parked in our garage.”
“Your garage?” Gram said. “Prove it.”
I could see my mom about to say something she would probably later regret. But fortunately, cooler heads prevailed. She paused long enough to compose herself.
“Tell you what—I’ll go down to city hall first thing in the morning and be sure to take care of it. How’s that?”
“Just like you took care of your other outstanding tickets? Seventy-six of them to be exact,” Gram snapped.
My mom continued to play along. “I’ll pay all of them tomorrow. I promise.”
“Well, it’s a little too late for that, sister. You’re under arrest.” And with that, Gram made her move. Before my mom knew what hit her, she found herself handcuffed—one end to her wrist and the other to a handle on one of the counter drawers.
My mom began tugging at the handcuffs and tried to open them. When she realized that it wasn’t a toy, she scowled.
“Okay, Mom, you’ve had your fun,” she said to my grandma.
“Fun? You’re a scofflaw. You think that’s fun?”
“So what do you want me to do now?” my mom asked calmly.
“If I were you,” Gram said, “I’d get yourself a good lawyer. See you in court.” She turned and walked into the hallway.
My mom motioned me over. “See if you can find the key for these,” she said.
I turned and followed my grandma to her room. I didn’t want to spoil Gram’s fun, but I could see that my mom was close to reaching her boiling point and she appeared anxious for this little performance to reach its conclusion. This was slightly out of character for Gram. She usually pulled pranks on my dad, but on occasion she would share the wealth. I didn’t want to see things escalate, so I decided to try to defuse things on my own.
“That was pretty funny, Gram. So, would you like me to release the prisoner?”
“Release? Before she’s had her day in court? I don’t think so.”
Gram walked into her closet and, about a minute later, reappeared wearing a full-length, black judge’s gown.
“Want to stick around?” she said. “I could use a good bailiff.”
I politely declined. Right at that moment, I wanted to get as far away as physically possible. And that was precisely what I did.
CHAPTER 5
The Faulty Breaks Caper
I left via the front door, walked along the side of the house to the backyard and into the garage. I hopped on my bike and fled the scene. I didn’t want my mom to think that I had abandoned her, but what was I supposed to do? I wasn’t proud of myself, but the last thing I wanted was a family scene where I had to take sides. It was never pretty. I would usually side with Gram, but because it was my parents who doled out justice, I would more often than not find myself reluctantly agreeing with them, at least publicly. Gram never seemed to hold it against me, though. She realized that these family crises placed me in a precarious situation and that for reasons of self-preservation, I needed to align myself with my parents. I was glad she understood.
As I biked my way to Eugene’s office, I tried to imagine the scene taking place in our kitchen. I didn’t want to think about it. I knew one thing for sure—my dad was in for an earful as soon as he walked in the door. My mom would usually escort him into their bedroom, close the door, share the sordid details, and then ask him what he planned to do about it. This had happened more times than I cared to remember. I knew the routine fairly well since I had eavesdropped on a few of their conversations in the past. If things played out true to form, my mom would ask him to consider placing my grandmother in a home with other senior citizens. She would argue that Gram would actually be happier there since she’d be around more people her own age. My dad would always resist. He either realized that Gram had full use of her faculties and was perfectly fine living with us or he was just too afraid of what she’d do if he even suggested it. Whatever the reason, I was just glad that the situation would always remain the same. And after a few days, it would all blow over and things would be back to normal—although normal at our house would probably be considered abnormal anywhere else. No big deal. I was used to it.
I wished sometimes that I could share with my mom certain details about my grandmother’s past. She’d have a completely different opinion of her mother-in-law if I were able to do that. But Gram had sworn me to secrecy. My mom was aware that Gram was an overseas telephone operator during World War II, but what she didn’t know was that Eugene, a commander with US Naval Intelligence, had recruited her to intercept and decode enemy messages that were communicated over phone lines. Gram had a real gift when it came to deciphering secret codes. I think they call it cryptography. And since she handled international calls, the government figured that she’d be in a perfect position to recognize sensitive messages, especially conversations, from enemy countries. Gram served her country well but had always kept it a secret—from everyone but me, that is.
And if that weren’t awesome enough, Gram joined Eugene after the war when he set up his own private detective agency. She accompanied him on countless cases. Eugene had a nickname for her that I just recently learned—the Chameleon. Since Gram was asked to do a lot of undercover work, she frequently needed to blend into a crowd without being noticed. She became a master of disguise that allowed her to collect evidence and help solve a bunch of cases. And I guess that Gram never got tired of those disguises. It would explain her fondness for taking on new personalities on an almost-daily basis. When you come from a background filled with adventure and intrigue, it must be hard to give that up. To me, it was pure entertainment. To my parents, however, it was anything but.
By the time I made it across town to Eugene’s, my legs ached. I never complained, though. I always considered it a great way of working off a few calories—a few calories that I’d never miss. I parked my bike in the back of the building and climbed the stairs to Eugene’s office. As I did so, I thought about how lucky I was to have someone like Eugene in my life. He was more than just a friend—he was a mentor and, at times, a lifesaver. He had come to our rescue in the nick of time in each of our last two adventures—with Rupert Olsen and Colonel Culpepper. I can honestly say that I’m not sure I’d be standing here today without the help of one very cool senior citizen.
When I reached the top of the stairs, I immediately noticed the sign on the door. It was new. It read EUGENE PATTERSON, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR. Someday, I thought, I’d like to have a real office somewhere, and I could picture the sign: CHARLIE COLLIER, SNOOP FOR HIRE. CHARLIE COLLIER, PROPRIETOR. I knocked twice, scratched my fingernails over the surface of the door, and then knocked three more times. It was a special password informing Eugene that a friend was on the other sid
e of the door.
“Come in,” a voice said.
Since the door was always getting stuck, I put my shoulder into it. It easily gave way. Eugene, seated behind his desk reading the newspaper, greeted me with a broad smile.
“Charlie, what a surprise.” He set the paper down.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt anything, Eugene.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I was just reading about those burglaries. You know, the rug store and the bakery. The boys in blue are stumped.” He winked. “Maybe you and I ought to lend a hand. What do you think?”
“That’s what Gram suggested. But maybe we should wait for a formal invitation.”
“Couldn’t agree with you more,” he said as he sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “So, what brings you here? Need help with another case?”
“No, not really. Although I reserve the right to return if I do,” I said with a grin.
“My door’s always open,” he said. “If it’s not stuck, that is.”
I walked in and pulled up a chair opposite his desk.
“So, what’s on your mind?” Eugene said.
“Actually, it’s a social call.”
Eugene got up, walked around to the front of his desk, and sat on the edge. “Even better.”
“I had a nice conversation today with an old friend of yours,” I said.
“And who would that be?”
“An old fraternity brother by the name of Thad.”
Eugene smiled. “That would have to be Thaddeus Miles. Am I right?”
I nodded.
“Is he still teaching at Roosevelt?”
“Uh-huh. And he’s directing a play too.”
“You don’t say. Well, Thad certainly loved the theater. Maybe a little too much.”
I leaned forward in my chair. “And I have some really big news.”
Eugene raised his eyebrows.
“I got one of the leading parts in the production. And get this—I play a private detective.”
Eugene clapped and laughed. “I love it. When do you start?”
“Play practice begins next Monday after school,” I said. “I’m afraid it’s going to occupy a lot of my time. So I guess we won’t be taking on any new clients for a while. I might not even have time to read any Sam Solomon novels.”
Eugene snapped his fingers as if he had just remembered something. “Sam Solomon. Thanks for reminding me.” He slid off the front of his desk, walked around, and sat down behind it. He picked up a pencil and began scribbling something on a piece of paper. “Gotta remember to listen to Sam’s new episode next week. If I don’t write it down, I’m sure to forget.”
“What new episode? What are you talking about?”
“Didn’t you know?” he said.
“Know what?”
“About The Sam Solomon Mystery Theater. The radio station in town is rerunning highlights from the series.”
Sam Solomon Mystery Theater? What was Eugene talking about? I knew all about the Sam Solomon novels. Heck, I had read each one of them multiple times. But this sounded like something completely different.
“Eugene, I’m confused. You mean to tell me that Sam Solomon was on radio?”
“Your grandpa never told you about it?”
I shook my head.
Eugene sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “And you call yourself a Sam Solomon fan?”
Not just a fan, I considered myself an expert on the world’s greatest master detective. How could I have missed this?
“Let me tell you about it, Charlie. The Sam Solomon Mystery Theater was a popular old-time radio program back in the late 1930s and early 1940s. And this year just happens to be the seventy-fifth anniversary of its premiere. So, the local radio station in town is rerunning one episode each week from the collection. That’s the good news. The bad news is that they’re airing them at eleven o’clock on Monday nights—well past your bedtime, I would guess.”
“I’d gladly lose some sleep for a chance to hear them,” I said.
“Just don’t let your parents catch you, okay?”
I nodded. “I can be very discreet when I need to be.” This was such great news. I had a hard time believing it. A whole new world of Sam Solomon was about to open up to me. “Are the stories just like the ones in the books?”
“Yeah, just shorter,” Eugene said. “Sam needs to conduct his entire investigation and find the bad guy in just thirty minutes. A little bit tougher, but he can do it. After all, he’s Sam Solomon.”
This was amazing. I wasn’t sure if I could emotionally handle everything that had happened in the last few hours. First, I’m a leading man. And now, my hero on the radio. It just didn’t get any better than this.
“So, do you know what the next episode is about?” I asked.
Eugene placed a finger to his lips. “Let me see if I can remember. After last night’s program, I seem to recall hearing something about coming attractions.” He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and made a face. I had seen it before. Eugene was in full concentration mode. He opened one eye. “I’m getting it. Something’s coming.” When his other eye popped open, I knew he had it. “A crooked promoter bets on prizefights that he illegally fixed.”
“Sounds interesting,” I said. “So, that’s this Monday night at eleven, right?”
Eugene picked up a pad of paper. “Want me to write it down for you?”
I smiled. “No, I’m sure I’ll remember.” I didn’t need any reminders. There was no way that I would forget about The Sam Solomon Mystery Theater. I was certain that it would soon become my favorite program.
Eugene got up, walked over to the window, and opened it a crack. “Getting a little stuffy in here.” It got a little stuffy in Eugene’s office on a regular basis. This unique space was an exact replica of Sam Solomon’s 1938 Chicago office—including climate control—which meant a radiator that worked whenever it wanted to and absolutely no sign of air-conditioning. He returned to his desk. “So, tell me about this big production you’re starring in.”
“Well, it’s about this young, spoiled socialite who’s a suspect in the disappearance of her wealthy parents. The police are convinced that she’s the guilty party, although no bodies have been recovered. No one seems to believe her, so she hires this private eye named Nick Dakota”—I pointed to myself—“to dig up evidence that will hopefully convince the authorities she’s innocent.”
“Sounds like Thad’s got himself a winner,” Eugene said. “And if you need any help, just yell. I was in a few productions in college. Glad to give you some pointers.”
“I may take you up on that,” I said. “This is all new territory for me.”
“By the way, are any of your other friends in the play?” he asked.
I smiled. “Believe it or not, both Henry and Scarlett are in it. Henry plays the police detective intent on convicting Rebecca Ramsey—that’s the heroine’s name. And Scarlett plays Rebecca.”
“With all you kids in the play, it looks like your little agency may become a ghost town for the next few weeks.”
A ghost town? I didn’t like the way that sounded. And the more I thought about it, the more it bothered me. I was determined to win over Scarlett with my acting prowess, but was I really willing to abandon the agency? At the time, it seemed like the right thing to do, but now I found myself rethinking my options. Had I acted hastily when I agreed to play the role of Nick Dakota? Did I even for a minute think about potential clients who’d be denied our services? What would they do when they stopped by the garage and found it empty? I was beginning to feel guilty . . . and selfish. I needed to rethink all of this.
“Eugene, I better get going.”
“Need a ride?” he asked. “We can toss your bike in the back of the car if you want.”
I glanced at
the clock on the far wall. “No, that’s okay. I have just enough time to make it home for dinner. Thanks anyway, though.”
“Well, break a leg,” he said.
“Huh?”
“Theater talk,” he said. “It means good luck.”
“Oh, thanks. Well, see you later.” I hightailed it to the door and raced down the stairs. I jumped on my bike and was off. All I could think about was how I’d feel a day, a week, or a month from now if I hadn’t solved a case for someone. I was guessing that I’d feel pretty empty inside. As badly as I wanted to be Scarlett’s leading man, I wasn’t really sure I wanted to devote all of my time to the play and miss out on the chance for a big caper. Suddenly I didn’t know what to do.
I made it home in record time. When I pulled up in back of the house and entered the garage with my bike, I noticed, hanging on the walls, all of the paraphernalia I had accumulated for my role as a super-sleuth. My fedora and trench coat hung from hooks. The card table—the official agency desk—was stuck behind a ladder. Lawn chairs, for me and potential clients, were folded up and stacked in the corner. A set of binoculars and a magnifying glass were tucked away high on a shelf behind some paint cans. And the clipboard that held our appointment calendar was stuffed behind boxes of Christmas ornaments. Best to keep that one hidden. If it fell into enemy hands—namely my parents—the agency might be forced to close its doors permanently.
As I stared at all of our tools of the trade, I continued to question my decision to audition for the play. Did I really want to give up all of this for a few weeks? Could I even make myself walk away from it? To have been selected for one of the leading parts in Mr. Miles’s production was unimaginable. It was an amazing accomplishment for someone with no formal training as an actor. But somehow I had managed to pull it off. After having done that, was I really willing to just walk away from this new opportunity? Not to mention all of the quality time with Scarlett that I’d be losing. I had to make a decision, and fast. I had to choose—my love of the P.I. business versus the glittering lights of Broadway.
The Copycat Caper Page 5
