by Dave Keane
“We need you to gather some background about Mrs. Bagby’s painting and the artist on the Internet,” Hailey says from just inches behind me. I try not to flinch, but my shoulders jump a little despite my best efforts.
“Yeah, you’re great at researching stuff,” I say, trying to win him over. “Your report on the guy who invented the spork was amazing.”
“I made that stuff up,” he whispers, looking back over his shoulder. “I forgot to do the homework, and I thought my turn wouldn’t come until Monday. So I thought up most of that stuff on the spot.”
“You made up your report?” I gasp.
“Quiet!” Lance hisses. “I don’t want Jimmy to hear.”
“Jimmy?” Hailey and I ask at the same time.
“Oh, yeah…Jimmy Chee is spending the night at my house.”
It takes me a moment to absorb this startling fact. “You’re having a sleepover with Jimmy Chee?” I gulp.
Lance’s grandma barely even lets me step into the house, let alone spend the night. The information hits me like a sleeping bag full of rocks. Lance has been my best friend since first grade, and he’s never invited me to a sleepover!
Like a bad penny, Jimmy Chee appears behind Lance in the doorway.
Lance clearly notices the surprise on my face. “Jimmy’s stepdad is having shoulder surgery today,” he explains. “His mom asked my grandma if he could spend the night so his dad can moan and complain in peace without some kid irritating him every second of the day. Jimmy can get under your skin like nobody’s business.”
“Did you know you forgot to put your shirt on?” Jimmy asks, proving Lance’s point beautifully.
Nobody answers him. We stand frozen in awkward silence. You could cut the tension with a spork.
“We better get going,” Hailey says, grabbing me by the shoulder. “We have a grandpappy waiting,” she sneers at Lance and Jimmy.
“What the heck is a grandpappy?” Lance asks, truly confused.
“Will you help me?” I ask quietly, anxious to get back to my sinking ship but more anxious to get some background for my case.
Jimmy clears his throat. “Hey, I thought we were making snickerdoodles!”
“You’re making cookies?” I ask in a voice that’s similar to the hissing sound a beanbag makes when your fat uncle sits on it.
Hailey waves a hand in front of Lance’s face. “Are you helping or not?”
“Okay,” Lance grumbles, simply to put an end to the awkward tension between us. “I’ll get started first thing in the morning.”
“You’ve got sixty minutes,”
I say, handing him the folded-up sticker from the museum. I turn and head for Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.
Behind me I hear Hailey giving Lance our dad’s cell phone number and Lance suggesting that he send over a couple dozen snickerdoodles to put some meat on my bones.
When Hailey finally joins me in the car, I breathe a sigh of relief. Just then the car stalls and my grandpa can’t get it to start again. As the engine hacks, gasps, and splutters at the curb, Lance and Jimmy Chee stand in the doorway, watching as my ship takes on more water. I wish Lance would stop staring and get to work on gathering background.
I sink in my seat.
I have so much more to do, and so much farther to sink, that I honestly don’t think I’ll know when I hit bottom.
• Chapter 12 •
A Picture Worth a Thousand Words
We leave our grandpa at the curb in front of Lance’s house, mumbling curses under Bessie’s hood. On the walk back down Baker Street, I work out a plan of action in my head. By the time I push through the front door of my house, I know exactly what to do.
Step one is putting on a shirt. I choose my lucky Inspector Wink-Wink shirt, which I don’t wear much in public because it rattles people to see a kid in the fourth grade wearing a shirt about a TV show for first graders. But you can’t please everybody.
Step two is tracking down every lead we’ve got. “Get on the phone and see if you can talk to Clem, the museum’s janitor,” I instruct Hailey when I find her reading on the couch.
“Nice shirt,” she says with a grin. “Is every other shirt you own in the Man Laundry basket?”
See what I’m talking about!
“We need to know everyone who saw that painting yesterday,” I continue. “And I don’t trust that rock-headed curator as far as I can throw him, which wouldn’t be far.”
“You’re not known for your muscle mass,” Hailey says.
“And see if you can find out what happened to Officer Lestrade.”
“Ten-four, Major Mildew,” Hailey says, saluting.
“And call Lance and tell him we’re almost out of time. I need him to find out the name of the museum’s chairman.”
“Anything else, boss?” she says. “Perhaps you want me to pick up all the dirty underwear in your room? Or pluck the fuzz ball out of your belly button?”
“I have a fuzz ball in my belly button?” I say, feeling around in there with a finger.
“Oh, you probably should see this,” Hailey says, handing me an old, faded photograph. “Grandma says Mrs. Bagby dropped it off earlier.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” I gasp, staring at the picture.
“Your shirt threw me for a loop,” she says simply.
The photo shows a much younger Mrs. Bagby, a tall older man, a bearded man wearing a headband and round sunglasses, and a corner of a painting, which I assume is Man with a Cat. The rest of the painting is cut off, but at least I can see a corner.
“Oh, Sherlock, you’re helping that poor splotchy woman?” my grandma says, entering the room. “I’m so proud of you,” she coos, and kisses me on the cheek.
“What about me?” Hailey protests. “What am I? A throw pillow over here?” Grandma gives her a peck on the cheek, too.
Grandma points out the photo’s highlights. “That’s Mrs. Bagby in her pre-splotch days, that is her unpleasantly hairy boyfriend Bobby, and this is the artist McGuffin, and that is the painting that’s been stolen. She said this photo is over thirty-five years old, but it’s the only one she has of the painting.”
“It helps, Grandma,” I say, staring at the photo. “It proves that Mrs. Bagby got the painting directly from the artist himself, and it will go a long way in proving that it’s authentic. That is, of course, if we ever see it again.”
“Ah, there’s the rub,” Hailey says, shooting me a look.
“I need an art expert right now,” I announce. “Is Jessie home?”
“She’s home, dear,” Grandma says, looking down the hallway. “But she’s not in a very good mood.”
I start off down the hallway, into the jaws of the beast. “Well, at least there’s something I can count on in this world,” I say to nobody in particular.
• Chapter 13 •
A Closed-Door Policy
My sister is the artist in my family. I’ve flipped through all her secret notebooks full of her sketches, drawings, and watercolors. And she has more art books than most libraries. Plus, Jessie’s so miserable and grouchy that she’s sure to become a successful artist one day.
But she won’t open her bedroom door.
“Go away, you worm!” Jessie snaps from behind the door. This is not like her; she usually prefers to fling her door open and yell at me face-to-face—she loves the personal touch.
“Is there something you want to talk about?” I shout at the door, knowing that this question will irritate her tremendously.
She’s quiet for a moment. “My life is over,” she warbles.
Oh, no. Whenever my sister says this, it means she has a zit.
In case you don’t already know, a zit is basically a clogged hole in your face’s skin. The hole plugs up with gunk, grease, and grime so bad that it forms a tiny cork. Meanwhile, a little pink volcano of pus and nasty goo builds up underneath the whole mess.
“I’m sure it’s not so bad,” I say through the door, hearing a ticking
clock in the back of my mind. “I bet I don’t even notice it.”
With that Jessie’s door unlocks with a snap and the door swings open with a big gust of wind. “Notice anything unusual?” she growls.
“Wow!” I say, my mouth dropping open in amazement. “It looks like you’re growing another head through your nose.”
“I told you!” she thunders.
“Has it said anything yet?” I ask, unable to take my eyes off the massive lump. “Can you even see straight?”
“My life is over,” she says, looking up at the ceiling.
“Hey, I’m not here to take photos,” I say as calmly as I can. “I’m here to ask some questions about an artist. It’s for a case I’m—”
“Oh my gosh, Jessie!” Hailey wails from just inches behind my right ear. “You’re growing some kind of a horn out of the side of your beak!”
Her timing could not have been worse. Before I can stop Jessie, she slams her door and crawls back into her shell like a zitty, moody hermit crab.
“Thanks a lot,” I grumble, not turning around.
“Forget the Pimple Princess,” Hailey says with a wave.
“I HEARD THAT!” comes a shrill scream from behind the door.
“The phone’s been hopping,” she says, tapping me on the shoulder with the cell phone. “We’ve got some hot leads, Sherlock. So zip up your zipper and let’s get to work.”
“Not again!” I snap, zipping up that dang, low-flying fly.
I’m not sure what leads Hailey’s referring to, but when your ship is sinking fast, you’ll grab on to just about anything.
“I still need Jessie’s help,” I say, looking at the artist in the photo.
“Forget it,” Hailey says. “Unless you can bribe her.”
Then I remember something. “I can’t bribe her, but I can blackmail her.” I slowly pull the crumbled index cards from my back pocket. The list of boys Jessie thinks are cute didn’t help me with my Sherlock Holmes report, but they’ll be perfect for convincing Jessie to help us.
Hey, nobody said this business was pretty.
• Chapter 14 •
The Slow Boat to Baskerville
“Grandma, is this as fast as your car goes?”
I’m in a near panic in the backseat of my grandma’s car. We’re heading back downtown. I just hope we make it before the holiday season gets here.
“Are you in some kind of energy-saving gear?”
Luckily, my grandma refuses to drive in Bessie, the car heard round the world, which my grandpa is still trying to bring back to life in front of Lance’s house. Grandma insists on driving her own car. I can’t say I blame her; my ears are still ringing.
Hailey is sitting next to me, plowing through a book about meat-eating plants—she must have finished the book about shipwrecks when I wasn’t looking.
Jessie is sitting silently up front with our grandma. I’d probably be able to see steam coming out of her ears, but she has a towel draped over her head. She doesn’t want to be seen in her current state of zittiness.
“So what’s with this artist Arthur McGuffin?” I ask the towel. “How come there are only forty-three of his paintings in existence?”
“AAAAGH!” the towel snarfs. “He burned most of his paintings in a fit of rage one night. I know how he felt. So is that it? Can I have those cards back now, you little thief?”
“Not so fast,” I say. Boy, she sounds touchy. “Do you think this McGuffin guy could have stolen his painting to burn it?”
“He’s been dead for over twenty years, so I think you can rule him out as a suspect.”
“You’re probably right,” I say quietly.
I watch out the window as a kid on a skateboard blows past us like we’re standing still. “Grandma, I think I can do a crab walk faster than this.”
“Don’t rush me, honey,” she says, coasting to a very gradual stop at the corner of Baker Street and Conan Avenue.
Like most old people I’ve encountered, my grandma hates to be rushed. Apparently, once you’re old enough to grow hair out of your ears, the concept of rushing around to accomplish things suddenly seems pointless and ridiculous.
“Have you ever heard of the painting in this photo?” I ask the towel. “It’s called Man with a Cat.”
Jessie growls from under the towel. “I didn’t know the name of it, no. Nobody does. It was always just a rumor.”
“And this artist is all famous and stuff?”
“I can’t believe this!” she snips. “Yeah, he’s ‘all famous and stuff.’ He’s only the most famous and influential artist from this region ever, so there’d be lots of interest if a new painting of his turned up.”
“So it’s worth a lot of money?” I ask.
“More money than you’ll make in a lifetime,” she snarks. She holds out her hand and snaps her fingers.
“I’m still thinking of questions,” I inform her.
Officer Lestrade told Hailey he’d meet us at the mayor’s mansion. He’ll be on his coffee break, since his chief ordered him not to log in any more time on the theft of a painting that might not be worth a darn.
The chief might change his mind if he saw Mrs. Bagby’s photo.
Clem, the maintenance guy at the museum, told Hailey that the museum was closed yesterday but the entire city council toured it late in the afternoon. And although he couldn’t be sure, Clem thought Mayor Fliggle was the last one to come down the stairs. He remembered because the mayor was wearing cowboy boots, and they made a colossal racket coming down the stairs.
And no, Clem didn’t remember hearing any breaking glass.
Hailey had called City Hall, but the mayor and his boots had already skipped out for the day. She was somehow able to talk us into an emergency meeting at the mayor’s mansion, which is right next to City Hall. I don’t ask how she was able to accomplish this—I don’t think I want to know.
I’m just hoping the mayor noticed something yesterday. Or saw somebody fishy hanging around. Or even remembers if the painting was still hanging on the wall!
I realize he is my best shot, because tracking down and interviewing the entire city council could take days.
So many leads, so little time.
I watch all the other traffic on the road whiz past us. “Would it help if I got out and pushed, Grandma?”
Not surprisingly, Lance isn’t helping much. He had called when we were rolling away from the house. He and Jimmy Chee burned a batch of cookies, the smoke alarm went off, and he got sidetracked opening all the windows in his house. I’m secretly pleased the sleepover isn’t going so splendidly, but I need Lance to get to work.
As we finally exceed tricycle speed on the Baskerville Expressway, the cell phone rings. Hailey drops her book about flesh-eating flowers, and answers. She listens quietly and says, “Okay, thanks, Clem.”
She snaps the phone shut, looks at me, and goes back to her book.
“Well?” I say in exasperation.
“That was Clem,” she says without looking up. “He said the auction has started. The first two paintings have already sold and the crowd is bidding on number three.”
I look up hopefully as the car comes to a sudden stop, which isn’t easy to detect when your average speed doesn’t exceed slow and slower.
But we’re not in front of the mayor’s mansion!
We’re stopped on the off-ramp to downtown. It looks like a parking lot! With panic rising in my throat like a plate of bad clams, I figure we’re still five city blocks from where I should have been two hours ago.
I can either cry or do something dramatic.
Or cry dramatically, of course.
Instead, I open my door and jump out.
“What about my cards!” Jessie shrieks from under the towel.
“I’ll meet you at City Hall!” I shout, slam the door before they can tell me that I’ve gone crazy, and rocket off between the honking cars.
Before I know it, the wind is in my face, downtown Baskerville
is spread out before me, and I’m running so fast I can’t figure out why I don’t wear a cape.
• Chapter 15 •
Uptown Express
I was not only blessed with a natural gift for solving mysteries, I was given the gift of speed.
I’m likely to be the biggest star the Baskerville junior track team has ever had—once I’m no longer suspended from the team. (Coach Lowney gave me some time off to “pull my head out of the sand” after I kept forgetting about our track meets and practices.)
But track team or not, the madness of downtown Baskerville on this Friday evening is whizzing past me like I’ve been fired out of a king-size slingshot. I can tell from the cool breeze that my lazy zipper is down again, but I simply can’t afford to stop and deal with another wardrobe malfunction.
I’m making great speed, but my mind is racing even faster.
I’m haunted by the image of the sad-looking hole in the auction room’s wall, the broken glass sprinkled in the alley, and the curator’s massive noggin. I even gag reflexively two or three times at the memory of my favorite shirt.
Have I missed something? Is this too much for one kid to handle? Do I need a license to run this fast?
I easily pass a guy delivering a stack of pizzas on the back of his motorized scooter—my growling stomach almost has a heart attack! I am nearly pancaked by a lady swerving all over the road while blabbing on two cell phones at the same time. And I narrowly avoid crushing myself like an accordion against a taxi door that suddenly pops open.
It’s crazy, but it feels like it’s all my fault that Mrs. Bagby’s treasured masterpiece has been stolen. I feel terrible, like I’ve let her down. I’ve never encountered a case that I wasn’t able to crack, but my winning streak may be coming to an abrupt and ugly end. The frustration fuels my legs to churn even faster.
