The Kenyan Expedition

by Steve Stevenson

  The young detective spent the next few hours sitting cross-legged on the stone. Zen meditation wasn’t really his thing; instead of calming him down, a million questions careened through his head. Was Sensei Miyazaki really an Eye International agent? And if so, why wasn’t he teaching Dash how to fight bad guys, defend himself with his bare hands, and do cool flying kicks? And—the most pressing question of all—when was lunch?

  He didn’t realize he had dozed off until a sudden snap of fingers woke him at noon.

  “I didn’t do it!” Dash jolted awake. “What’s up?”

  The elderly monk stood in front of him, calmly crunching a sesame cracker. “Time for your first test of the day,” he announced. “This ancient technique is called the Twisted Eel.”

  “What?” Dash protested, standing abruptly. “Don’t I get a lunch break?”

  Sensei Miyazaki’s mustache quivered in disappointment. “This isn’t a restaurant, Lazy Squirrel,” he said stiffly. “You’re here to learn"—crunch, crunch—"not to gorge yourself.”

  Dash’s stomach was growling, but he obeyed. The only way to get out of here as soon as possible was to satisfy his teacher’s demands. But when Dash stepped around the corner of the pagoda, he was stunned. The whole space was filled with a forest of ropes lashed to sturdy bamboo poles. The ropes were stretched at various heights and angles, tied close together like a giant web. “What is all this?” he asked, alarmed.

  Miyazaki’s lips stretched into a mocking grin. “To free yourself from your adversaries, you must learn to slip from their grasp like an eel,” he replied, raising one finger. “Make your way to the far side without ever touching a rope . . . if you can!”

  Dash cracked his knuckles, determined. He would prove his worth by passing this test without a hitch! He avoided the first rope by tilting his head sharply, then pivoted on his toes over the second. He flexed his thin shoulders backward and slid under the third as if doing the limbo. “Piece of cake!” he exclaimed, jumping over the next.

  As he gloated, Dash heard a loud trill coming from the backpack he’d left near the meditation stone. Inside its front pocket was the precious multifunction device he used for school: a state-of-the-art high-tech gadget known as the EyeNet.

  The insistent ringing could only mean one thing: He’d been assigned a new mission!

  Momentarily distracted by that thought, Dash tripped over a rope. He pitched forward a few feet and landed, half-dangling from a dense tangle of ropes, facedown in the grass. With a mouthful of dirt, he didn’t even say, “Ouch!”

  “Are you hurt, Lazy Squirrel?” Miyazaki sounded concerned.

  A hand shot out from the tangle of knots. “Sensei, please pass me my phone!” exclaimed Dash. Noting the monk’s hesitation, he added in a whisper, “It’s my EyeNet. Must be something urgent!”

  When Miyazaki handed him the titanium device, Dash checked the message on-screen, and his eyes widened. Without realizing it, he managed to extricate himself from the ropes in a single smooth move.

  “Hollywood . . . ?” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Are they out of their minds?”

  Amazed at the skill with which his young student had freed himself, Sensei Miyazaki stood speechless as Dash took off like a flash. Before the teacher could even congratulate him, Dash had disappeared into the London streets.

  Of course, Dash had rushed off to get help from his genius cousin, Agatha Mistery.

  Mistery House was a bright spot of color in an otherwise gray London suburb. Today, the lavender-roofed Victorian mansion had a sparkling air of celebration. In the luxuriant gardens, fountains gushed among blooming rhododendrons, while classical music spilled out from the house. It was just the right atmosphere to celebrate the anniversary of indefatigable jack-of-all-trades Chandler’s twelfth year at Mistery House.

  “Such a shame Mom and Dad got held up in Tasmania,” said Agatha, casting a disappointed gaze at the impeccably set table, loaded with goodies. “It would have been perfect if they were here, too.”

  “They’ll be home soon enough, Miss Agatha,” replied the impassive butler as he settled into a chair. The former heavyweight boxer’s bulk provoked a loud creak, but the chair held his weight. “I’m very grateful for all this attention,” he added softly, his voice betraying emotion.

  Agatha tapped the tip of her small, upturned nose with one finger, an unmistakable sign that she was pondering something. “Do you know what my parents are doing down there?” she asked, her eyes shining.

  “I’m so sorry, Miss Agatha.” Chandler shook his head gravely. “I have absolutely no idea.”

  “Before they left London, Mom mentioned they wanted to study a rare local species,” said Agatha, passing him a silver platter of oysters. “Try to guess which one!”

  “The famous Tasmanian devil?” the butler guessed. He swallowed a tasty lemon-and-parsley-sprinkled oyster in one gulp. Agatha had ordered all of his favorite foods for this anniversary lunch.

  “The largest carnivorous marsupial in the world? No, too obvious!” Agatha laughed. “You won’t believe it, but they’re studying some slimy green frogs that live only in sulfurous jungle swamps . . .”

  “Slimy frogs? Sulfurous swamps?” Chandler echoed. He lowered his gaze to the briny shellfish on the platter, suddenly losing his appetite. Struggling to maintain his usual calm, he asked, “What’s so special about these frogs?”

  Agatha pulled her leather-bound notebook from her back pocket. She always kept it with her in case she needed to record any detail of a topic that tickled her fancy. Like all members of the Mistery family, Agatha had chosen to pursue an unusual career. She wanted to be a world-famous mystery writer, and was always taking notes for her stories.

  “I’ve consulted some of the scientific magazines in the library over the past few days,” she explained, flicking through the pages. “It seems that this particular species has a gland that possesses miraculous medicinal properties.”

  “How extraordinary,” Chandler said politely.

  He was very familiar with his young mistress’s talents: an incomparable memory, dazzling intuition, attention to detail, and many other qualities that made her a decidedly out-of-the-ordinary twelve-year-old girl.

  “But what am I thinking? Our lovely lunch will get cold.” Agatha excused herself, put her notebook away, and grabbed a seafood skewer. “You know what?” she said, beaming. “I’m glad to be celebrating this anniversary with you and our darling cat, Watson. You’re the best friends anybody could have!”

  “Aren’t you forgetting somebody, Miss Agatha?”

  Agatha looked amused. “You mean my dear cousin Dash?” she asked, twirling the skewer playfully. “I invited him, too, but he said it was a bad time. He’s enrolled in some crazy martial-arts course and needs to practice all day. But I bet he’ll drop in to say hello before the end of the day. He won’t want to miss a slice of your—”

  Agatha stopped in midsentence, covering her mouth with her hand. “Ooops . . . I’m such a loudmouth!” she said, blushing. “I nearly ruined the surprise!”

  The butler raised an eyebrow, pretending that he knew nothing. That morning, he had spotted a five-layer Sacher torte on a platter in the pantry. The delicious Viennese chocolate-and-apricot-jam layer cake was his favorite dessert.

  Agatha quickly changed the subject, and as soon as they’d finished their lunch, she asked Chandler to close his eyes and wait for her to bring his surprise gift to the table.

  That was the moment when everything stopped being perfect.

  “Watson!” Agatha cried in despair as she entered the pantry. “What have you done?”

  Chandler turned off the opera CD they’d been playing and peeked through the partially open door. Attracted by the delicious aroma, the white Siberian cat had climbed on top of the cake, spreading whipped cream all over the counter. Now he was cleaning chocolate a
nd apricot jam from his fur as though nothing had happened.

  “Why couldn’t you raid the leftover fish like a normal cat?” Agatha scolded. Grabbing a bar of soap, she turned on the sink and thrust the cat under running water. Watson yowled as water and bubbles flew everywhere. “You’re such a bad boy!” Agatha told him, unable to suppress a smile. “Stop complaining—you need a good scrub.”

  As if bathing a furious cat wasn't chaotic enough, the doorbell rang. Chandler got up to check the security camera on the front gate and saw a police officer holding a figure in what looked like loose white pajamas. Watson leaped out of the sink and ran upstairs, leaving a trail of wet paw prints.

  “It’s the police,” said Chandler.

  To be continued . . .

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