“Kazuko?” She stopped on the road and looked at me. “Kazu?” she said again, louder this time.
“Mom,” I said, and ran to her, leaving March in the frozen grass. She knelt and hugged me, squeezing the air from my chest. Genki jumped up on us, barking for attention. When she finally let go, she held me at arm’s length, searching my face. “Are you okay?”
I nodded my head, and she hugged me again, her tears wetting my cheek. I inhaled the scent of yuzu, Mom’s Japanese bath salts that smelled like tangerines, and knew everything would finally be okay.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
March, CindeeRae, and I were racing our bikes, standing on our pedals to go faster. The cold air bit at my bare fingers, and I sped up to try to pull ahead of March. The sun shone bright on Thanksgiving Day in Denver, Colorado, although the temperature was still cold enough for snow. We pedaled down the park road and past Pioneer Village, where the tools and other props had already been taken inside for winter. Genki pounded the pavement next to me, his jowls flapping in the wind and his mouth open in a big grin. March had left Hopper at home, but CindeeRae pulled Lobster along on a long leash, and it looked like the spinning wheels made her dog forget how to run in a straight line.
“Eat my dust!” March yelled as I passed, my pedal nearly hitting his wheel as I swerved around him.
“Suckah!” I said, laughing.
“Wait up,” CindeeRae called after us, and I sat down on my bike seat and held my legs out so my pedals could spin without my feet.
The sound of our bikes hummed in my ears, and I threw my head back and hollered. Now that everything had been solved—with Crowley and White in jail—we were free to ride around the park, as long as we returned to March’s house in time for pie. The emergency cell phone bobbed up and down in my back pocket as I rode.
By the time Allen had pushed our garbage cans to the curb that morning, Mrs. White and Crowley were long gone, headed to his sister-in-law’s cabin in Greybull, Wyoming. It didn’t take long for Detective Hawthorne to find the location, the address popping up as the most recently searched item on Crowley’s home computer. On Mrs. White’s computer they found a coded spreadsheet listing each dog that had been taken and where they had been sent. Within a week, they had decoded the document, and all the dogs had been located and returned to their happy humans, including Lenny, Lobster, and Barkley, just in time to welcome his new baby sister. With our case closed, Madeleine didn’t have much of a reason to talk to us at school anymore, but she still smiled every time she passed me in the hall.
The four of us spent approximately twenty-six hours feeling kinda famous after the Denver Chronicle ran an article about our keen detecting skills. But the next day they ran an update detailing how our nosiness had gotten us into a slew of trouble, including confrontations with both the dogfighters and the dognappers, which could have cost us our lives. Even though we were minors and the paper legally couldn’t include our names, everyone at Lincoln Elementary School knew who we were and started calling us the Granny Busters.
Our parents were proud until Detective Hawthorne debriefed us in his cubicle, and they realized how many botched missions we had voluntarily engaged in. “But our last one was successful,” I had argued as Mom pinched my earlobe. “One out of four isn’t a bad record for beginners.”
Detective Hawthorne tossed his pen onto his desk and shook his head. “Promise me you four will stay out of trouble from now on. Leave crime-solving to the professionals, okay?”
We nodded, and he handed the Sleuth Chronicle back to me. Mom had surrendered it when they discovered I was missing, hoping it might give them information on our whereabouts. Unfortunately, it only tipped them off to my Hero Complex, which, if I was being honest, was still alive and kicking.
In addition to being grounded for a few weeks, we all had to do community service for twenty hours each at the Denver Police Department’s K-9 unit and promise Detective Hawthorne we would never meddle in an open investigation again. I had been sure to clarify that detecting was fine, as long as we weren’t illegal about it. He then made us each write a paper detailing everything we did on the dognapper case that was illegal or obstructive. March, CindeeRae, and Madeleine had not been happy about that extra assignment. I had found it very enlightening.
Mom had been busy preparing the Exhibition of Espionage and Sleuthing this past month, and CindeeRae, March, and I had already been to the museum twice to help her build the set. The exhibition would be launched in January, and Mom promised I could participate in the big party she would throw on opening day. Aside from being angry at all the dangerous detecting we had done, Mom had admitted, grudgingly, that I had proven myself rather clever. If all that cleverness could just be legal from now on, she’d be grateful, thank you very much.
As we sped down the shady path behind Pioneer Village, I saw a man step from the blacksmith cabin, a duffel bag in his hand. The navy bag said SMITHEN on the side, and from the unzippered top I could see what looked like stacks of bills lining the inside. We turned the corner where a cement wall hid the museum, and I skidded to a stop.
“What are you doing?” March stopped his bike.
CindeeRae caught up as I pulled my new iPad from my bike basket: Sleuth Chronicle 2.0.
“Taking notes,” I said, recording everything I had seen.
“No, no, no, no,” March said, snapping the cover shut on my fingers. “I know what you’re doing, and I’m not going to let it happen.”
CindeeRae nodded in agreement.
I shrugged, pulling my iPad away and setting it back in my bike basket. “Whatever, Granny Busters.”
“Ha,” March said, launching his bike ahead of mine. “Race you both home?”
“You don’t stand a chance!” I yelled, cycling so fast my feet nearly spun off the pedals.
“Wait up!” CindeeRae trailed behind us, Lobster sniffing at Genki, who ran by her side.
We turned onto Honeysuckle and weaved back and forth across the road, cars tucked neatly into driveways on the quiet holiday. It wouldn’t be long before a Colorado winter quarantined us all, and I would have nothing to do but study my SleuthPad and practice saving the world.
Acknowledgments
To me, writing fiction in any capacity is an act of faith. But especially before you have an agent or a book deal. This story was written in the solitary and optimistic hours of unknowing, and materialized only with the help and encouragement of my most favorite people. Without them, Kazu Jones and the Denver Dognappers never would have been published.
My senior year high school English teacher, Mrs. Johansen, was the first person to ever encourage me to write, by scrawling “You should become an author” at the top of a personal essay. Before that, I had never considered creative writing as a thing I could do.
Following her kind words, I found myself enrolling in every creative writing class I could find at college (go, BYU-Hawaii Seasiders!), which is where I found my most treasured mentor, Chris Crowe. In graduate school, he became my thesis chair and my champion, and without his positive reinforcement I wouldn’t be here.
After convincing myself to finally get serious about writing, I stumbled upon the Snake River Writers, a local writing group that introduced me to critique partners, conferences, and a rowdy community of fun and encouraging human beings. Special thanks to extrovert extraordinaire Gina Larsen, who ensured I didn’t waste away as a sad, introverted writing hermit holed up at my kitchen counter. Other buddies from this group include Becky Bryan, Serene Heiner, Daniel Noyes, Karianne Perrenoud, Megan Clements, Carrie Snider, Maggie Decker, Jessica Wiseman, Melissa Gamble, Simone Stoumbaugh, and Melinda Erb. Thank you for being bright stars who are nothing but loving and supportive!
My Wednesday Night Writers critique group here in Idaho Falls were the first to read Kazu Jones, and their feedback and insight helped the manuscript level up. Extra-special thanks to Diana Shaw-Tracy, Deborah Poole, Sarah Russell, Rebecca Sanchez, Meighan Perry, and Robyn
Buchanan.
It would take pages and pages to name all the attendees and presenters at the Storymakers Conference who have positively impacted me on my writing journey. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
I’m so grateful to the writing community I found online, and to my first electronic writers group, Pitch Crit Crew, especially the administrators, Aften Szymanski and Wendy Knight. And a special thanks to Aften, Cassandra Newbould, Jueneke Wong, Maura Jotner, Kimberly Johnson, Jennifer Dugan, Danielle Doolittle, Jamie Lane, Sheena Boekweg, Heather Bower, Laura Vpvp, Rachel Larsen, Erin Shakespeare Bishop, and Shelly Brown for all your feedback on pitches, queries, chapters, and sometimes, entire manuscripts.
The writing community on Twitter is especially generous, and I marvel at all the authors who organize and promote contests and chats intended to lift and inspire fellow writers. I’m a 2016 #PitchSlam alum and am grateful to the hosts who sacrifice so much time and energy to this cause: LL McKinney, Laura Heffernan, Kimberly Vanderhorst, and Jamie Corrigan.
It was through #PitchSlam that I found my tireless agent, Carrie Pestritto, who believed in this story and found it a home. Thanks so much, Carrie! And I’d be a huge loser-pants if I didn’t also thank her fabulous interns, Bea Conti and Rosiee Thor.
Laura Schreiber made my life when she invited me into the Disney Hyperion family. And together with my editor, Hannah Allaman, they saw this book for what it could become and gave me the kindest, most encouraging revision notes ever. They saw a better book than I had submitted and helped me revise it so Kazu Jones could come closer to its potential.
Also, Grace Hwang, what a beautiful cover! I will forever love the sassy and determined look on Kazu’s face. Not to mention all the hidden puppers!
When I first started this story I mistakenly believed living in Japan for a couple years and then working as a Japanese tour guide in Hawaii had provided me with the necessary expertise to write a story about a Japanese American girl. I’m embarrassed at that ignorant assumption; it definitely had not. I’m forever grateful to Misa Sugiura, a tremendous author herself, for performing a sensitivity read and helping me recognize the cultural shortcomings in this book’s draft. I’m not delusional enough to believe my revisions resulted in perfect representation, but with Misa’s help, it came a lot closer. All remaining mistakes I readily accept as my own.
And of course, thanks to my mom, dad, and stepdad, who encouraged me to live my best life (and probably don’t know about all the trouble I got into while out riding my bike).
The inspiration for this story came to me while driving my kids—Kaleb, Leah, and Zack—on their own paper routes years ago. While I may hate early mornings, I will always treasure those hours we spent rolling and delivering newspapers together.
When I told my husband I wanted to quit freelancing to write fiction, he didn’t hesitate. “Go for it,” he said, exhibiting more faith in my abilities than I had. Thank you, Michael Holyoak, for being my biggest fan before I had even completed a manuscript.
And FINALLY, when Mike and I got married, we brought together the best blended family in the history of ever, which we fondly refer to as the Belyoak Bunch. I’m grateful to be the bonus mom for four great kids: Harrison, Claire, Carma, and Greyson. In my opinion, there’s nothing better for middle-grade writers than living in a home full of kids, and our seven-big crew definitely gave me a slew of material!
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