by Dave Keane
Dave Keane
Joe Sherlock
Kid Detective
Case #000005:
The Art Teacher’s Vanishing Masterpiece
For Tom Alessandri,
the best teacher I ever had.
—D.K.
Contents
Chapter 1: The World Is a Stage
Chapter 2: Nothing but the Truth
Chapter 3: And The Mystery Begins
Chapter 4: Art Teacher Toast
Chapter 5: Passing the Smell Test
Chapter 6: Shirt Invaders
Chapter 7: Crime in a Box
Chapter 8: Lost
Chapter 9: Smile and Say “Nothing”
Chapter 10: Rolling Thunder
Chapter 11: The Lance and Jimmy Show
Chapter 12: A Picture Worth a Thousand Words
Chapter 13: A Closed-Door Policy
Chapter 14: The Slow Boat to Baskerville
Chapter 15: Uptown Express
Chapter 16: You Can’t Fight City Hall
Chapter 17: Rolling Code Eleven
Chapter 18: Madman on the Loose!
Chapter 19: Backroom Deal
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
• Chapter 1 •
The World Is a Stage
Before I say anything else, you should know right up front that I’m absolutely terrified to speak in front of more than two people at a time.
I’d rather have my two front teeth pulled out with a rusty pair of pliers than stand up in front of my class and give an oral report.
But that’s exactly where I find myself, when my life takes an unexpected turn.
As I croak through my carefully memorized introduction, my legs feel like stale bread sticks. My heart feels like a red water balloon bouncing down a long flight of stairs. My tongue has turned into a fur coat.
In short, I’m not feeling so hot.
Just as I start to pick up some speed, a third grader named Jimmy Chee opens the classroom door and destroys my concentration.
The entire class shifts their eyes away from me and stares at Jimmy, as if his appearance is the most amazing thing to happen since the invention of the waffle iron.
Jimmy hands my teacher, Miss Piffle, a note. Every eye in the place follows the little scrap of paper like it’s my death warrant. Jimmy gives me a long, strange look and backs out the doorway without a word.
Every eye in the class rotates back in my direction at the same time, like some kind of monster with fifty-three sleepy eyeballs.
Oh, no!
Maybe I’m distracted by Jimmy Chee’s creepy stare. Or I’m too curious about the contents of that note. Perhaps it’s the fact that I can’t remember if I zipped up my zipper this morning. Who knows? The only thing I know for sure is that all the words I’ve worked so hard to memorize are suddenly gone. Lost in space. Missing in action. Gone with the wind.
For a moment I think I might get a nosebleed from sheer panic.
Then I remember the index cards I have squeezed in my damp fist. My little sister, Hailey, suggested I write my speech out on note cards in case I fainted, threw up, or just freaked out in general—they don’t call her a genius for nothing!
But there’s a problem: When I flatten the index cards, I moan in horror when I realize these are not my cards at all! They’re index cards detailing all the boys my big sister, Jessie, thinks are cute. What on earth?
“You’ll have to stop right there, Sherlock,” Miss Piffle says. She’s staring at the note with a soaring eyebrow. “I’m afraid you need to leave right now.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Although I don’t realize it yet, my fifth case as a private detective has finally arrived. Good thing, too, because I was about to fake my own death.
• Chapter 2 •
Nothing but the Truth
“Is this about the incident with the burning curtains?” I whisper to Miss Piffle with a sad, trembling voice. “It wasn’t my fault!”
“What burning curtains incident?” she snaps, her face transforming instantly from concern to suspicion.
“Never mind,” I mumble, desperate for some way to change the subject. “Maybe my parents are trying to get ahold of me. They went to Las Vegas for a few days to relax, gamble, and get away from me and my annoying sisters.”
Miss Piffle seems to file this tidbit of information away for later use, probably at the next parent-teacher conference. “I have no earthly idea what the problem is,” she sniffs. “It just says you are to report to the office immediately.”
“Oh, sure,” I say with a crooked smile. But my upset stomach tells another story: Any time you’re yanked out of class in the middle of your first oral report, it probably isn’t for splendid news.
“Before you go, we should discuss something,” Miss Piffle says, arching the twin caterpillars she uses for eyebrows. “Your biographical report appears to be about Sherlock Holmes. Are you aware that Sherlock Holmes is a fictional character?”
“That’s what I like best about him,” I peep, although I’m really thinking that I have no earthly idea what the word “fictional” means.
To be perfectly honest, my teacher has what’s called a unibrow, which means her eyebrows connect in the middle above her nose. So her eyebrows look like one long, hairy snake. It makes concentrating nearly impossible.
Miss Piffle can read my mind like an extremely short book. The hairy snake goes wild.
“Class, can anyone tell Sherlock what the word ‘fictional’ means?” Miss Piffle calls out.
After what feels like several million seconds, Sharon Sheldon speaks up. “‘Fictional’ means not real. A fictional character is made up, like for a book or movie.”
“Thank you, Sharon,” Miss Piffle beams proudly.
“Whatever,” I hear Sharon Sheldon sigh from behind me. She’s one of the smartest, most popular kids at Baskerville Elementary School, but her big brother is a gorilla who just happens to wear pants.
Miss Piffle sinks the caterpillars as low as they’ll go. I know this look; she’s about to drop the hammer on me. “As a result of this breaking news, Sherlock, you will have to find another character to do your oral report on, preferably someone who actually lived and breathed.”
“Hey, why don’t you do your oral report on Inspector Wink-Wink?” my best friend, Lance Peeker, booms through the silence. Of course, as with anything Lance says, the class explodes with laughter, like I just sat on one of those farting whoopee cushions while getting hit in the face with a banana cream pie.
I feel more like I’ve been hit in the stomach with a park bench.
How could the world’s greatest detective, my hero, The Great Detective himself, not be real? There are thousands of movies about him—and I have almost every one of them!
• Chapter 3 •
And the Mystery Begins
I somehow manage to snatch the note out of Miss Piffle’s hand and stumble out through the classroom door.
The eyebrow waves good-bye.
I gulp at the air, fanning my face with the tiny note. My wobbly legs steer me toward the school’s office.
“Hey, my note worked.”
It’s my little sister, Hailey. She grabs the note, shakes her head, and tosses the note into a nearby garbage can.
“You mean that note was fake?” I gasp.
“It wasn’t fake! I really wrote it,” Hailey informs me with a shrug. She starts pulling me down the empty hallway. “Sometimes a lie isn’t a lie, especially when being untruthful is meant to uncover a deeper truth,” she says.
My sister always throws these verbal obstacle
courses at me to distract me. They work. As my brain gropes its way through the mental maze, I forget what had me so flipped out in the first place.
Instantly, the tension begins to drain from my scrunched-up forehead.
Then I see a police car waiting at the curb outside the office!
“Holy hot sauce! They know about the burning curtains incident! They’re coming to take me away! Quick, hide me in a garbage can!”
“Whoa! Take it easy!” Hailey yells, holding me by the back of my pants so I can’t dive headfirst into a garbage can. “What burning curtains incident?”
“Never mind,” I snarl between clenched teeth. “The less you know, the better.”
“Hey, that’s your approach to life, not mine,” she shoots back.
I spin around, but the expression on Hailey’s face stops me cold.
She stands, arms crossed, a look of genuine concern in her eyes. “Wait a minute,” she whispers. “This isn’t about burning curtains, is it? You’re an odd shade of pea green. What happened? Oh, no…was Irene Adler picking and eating another one of her scabs?”
For a brief moment I think my lunch might come up for a victory lap. That tuna fish sandwich didn’t look so good before it went down, so I really doubt it would win any beauty contests in its current condition.
“Is Sherlock Holmes a ‘fractional’ character?” I blurt out.
“‘Fractional’? I think you mean ‘fictional,’” she replies evenly. “Look, I didn’t want to say anything,” she continues, shifting uncomfortably. “Sherlock Holmes is not real. Okay? He never was. He’s just a character created for some magazine stories over a hundred years ago. Sorry.”
My lower lip quivers. My eyeballs feel like they’re doing figure eights in my skull. The air seems to have gone mountain-peak thin.
“Hey, I’m sorry for your loss, but you need to snap out of it,” Hailey says, stabbing a finger in my chest. “The cop that’s parked out front is Officer Lestrade. He’s looking for you. And not because you torched some window coverings. Mrs. Bagby, our very own art teacher, had a valuable painting ripped off last night. Lestrade asked me to get you out of class. He needs your help. Now. As in extra pronto with a cherry on top and a police cruiser at the curb.”
I’m still in shock over the disturbing news about my hero. But my fifth official case as a private detective just fell into my lap like a very large bowling ball. And it feels great!
I notice I’m no longer gasping for breath. I’m once again sucking in air like a champ. “Let’s go crack us a case,” I say with a nod.
“Great,” Hailey replies. “But before we interview Mrs. Bagby, you might want to zip up your zipper.”
• Chapter 4 •
Art Teacher Toast
Our school’s office makes me feel itchy, nervous, and guilty for reasons I haven’t been able to figure out yet.
But Hailey? She just loves the place. Heck, she thinks it’s more fun than a barrel of apes.
“Why didn’t you just have Officer Lestrade ask Principal Lupin to get me out of class?” I ask.
“Sherlock, just let me do what I do best, and you do what you do best,” she says. “Besides, we don’t have time for permission slips, parental approvals, and small talk.”
In case you’re wondering why my little sister gets to walk around like she owns the place, it’s because she’s the only second grader on the planet with a free period. She gets a free period for math because she takes a high school geometry class. In short, my little sister is too smart for her own good.
As we enter a room strangely labeled TEACHER’S LOUNGE, PLEASE NO FLASH PHOTOGRAPHY, I can tell instantly that something is amiss, which is just Sherlock Holmes’s uppity way of saying “messed up bad.”
My eyes sweep over a microwave oven that’s seen one too many beef enchiladas, a chalkboard showing the number of days left till summer vacation, several dozen bottles of assorted pain relievers, and an oxygen tank.
Mrs. Bagby is flat on her back on the couch like a slice of sofa toast, groaning loudly and covered with a splotchy red rash.
Although Mrs. Bagby is usually covered with a splotchy red rash, I notice she is currently breaking her personal splotch record.
Mrs. Bagby visits every class at Baskerville Elementary School once a week to teach squirming kids about art history. I must admit it’s a tough crowd. And she seems to think all the groaning, yawning, and burping means the kids don’t like her. But the sad truth is, most kids don’t give a ham sandwich about art.
“Mrs. Bagby, my brother’s here,” Hailey says in a sweet and caring voice she never uses with me.
I notice Mrs. Bagby has kicked off her shoes. I’ve never seen a teacher’s feet before, and the sight of her plump toes makes me feel uncomfortable and a bit panicky.
Mrs. Bagby blinks in my direction with unfocused, glossy eyes.
“You’re the boy in Miss Piffle’s class who fidgets constantly,” she says unsteadily. “Your sister tells me you’re a mystery solver. Is that right?”
“I’m much better at solving mysteries than I am at art history,” I say awkwardly.
“Well that’s not saying much. You’re getting a C–in Art,” she sighs, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. She’s quiet for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “An extremely rare and valuable painting that’s hung in my living room for the last thirty-five years was stolen last night from the Baskerville Museum of Art, History, and Walnut Farming.”
I know the place she’s talking about. My class recently took our field trip there, and we were forced to learn more about growing walnuts than a kid should ever have to.
“Why wasn’t the painting in your living room?” I ask.
“I had finally decided to sell it,” Mrs. Bagby says to the ceiling in a cracking and quivering voice. “The museum is hosting Baskerville’s first annual art auction tonight. I dropped it off just yesterday with tears in my eyes. The money I would have gotten for selling it was going to fund my retirement. Now it’s been stolen.” She turns her watery eyes in my direction. “You seem like the type of person who needs to write things down.”
“Um…I forgot my backpack in my classroom,” I say.
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” Mrs. Bagby mumbles.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Bagby; unlike my brother, I don’t forget things,” Hailey says, shaking her head at me.
Before I can ask another question, Officer Lestrade pokes his head into the room. “Sherlock, there you are! I just came from your classroom. If you want to see that crime scene, I’ve got to take you over there now.
The auction is set to begin in just three hours, and the clock is ticking.”
I consider the fact that my entire class must think I’m being hunted by the police.
I bet Miss Piffle’s eyebrow went bananas.
“Oh, and Sherlock,” Officer Lestrade adds, “a girl in your class named Sharon Sheldon told me to tell you your zipper’s down, but it looks like you figured that one out already.”
Spending the rest of my life hiding under my bed is looking better every minute.
• Chapter 5 •
Passing the Smell Test
Lucky for my stomach, the traffic is slow on the Baskerville Expressway. Unlucky for my stomach, the backseat of Officer Lestrade’s police car smells like a poorly run petting zoo.
Hailey doesn’t seem too wild about the wet-elephant smell either. “Does this stink bomb come equipped with oxygen masks? I’m ready to confess to something just to get a whiff of fresh air.”
“I’d roll down your window if I could,” Officer Lestrade says with a shrug.
Amazingly, the stench doesn’t seem to bother Officer Lestrade. I figure the hideous odor must have long ago blackened and dried up the inside of his nostrils just like roofing tar.
“Maybe we should stop at the next drugstore and get some gas-powered air fresheners,” Hailey suggests.
“I called your house back at the school,” Officer Lestr
ade chuckles through the two-inch-thick slab of glass that separates him from the bad guys he arrests. “I spoke with your grandfather. He’s quite a character.”
See, when somebody calls a relative of yours a “character,” it’s basically a code word for saying that the person seems like a complete nutcase. It’s safe to say everyone in my family exceeds the legal limit in the “character” department.
“So, have you ever shot anybody?” Hailey hollers through the glass.
“Hailey!” I gasp. “That’s rude!”
“No, I’ve never shot anybody,” Officer Lestrade says slowly.
Hailey seems to slump in disappointment. “What kind of heat are you packing anyway? Your gun looks like an old revolver. Talk about a dinosaur! Why don’t you carry a nine millimeter? They carry fifteen rounds in a clip with one in the chamber, and they’re much faster to reload.”
The squad car goes silent. Officer Lestrade shifts uncomfortably in his seat, as I’m sure he’s thanking his lucky stars he’s on that side of the bulletproof glass.
“The Baskerville police department has had its budget cut for the last five years in a row,” Officer Lestrade explains. “New equipment takes a backseat to gas money and paychecks.”
While Hailey and Officer Lestrade discuss the finer points of body armor, pepper spray, and the history of the nightstick, I take Mrs. Bagby’s advice and jot down what I know so far, on a Girl Chat Sleepover notepad I borrow from Hailey.
