Amanda Lester, Detective Box Set

by Paula Berinstein

  “You’re nuts, you know that?”

  “Good thing, too. Ivy, Nigel is about to become a detective.”

  29

  Stowaway

  “I knew you had something up your sleeve,” said Ivy. She wasn’t the least bit surprised by Amanda’s suggestion that Nigel pick the assistant’s pocket. In fact she heartily approved and told Amanda it would be a cinch.

  They plotted out exactly what they would do. Amanda would create a distraction that would cause the assistant to run out into the hall during a busy time of day, and Ivy and Nigel would “accidentally” run into her. Of course this approach assumed that the woman would have her phone on her, but both Amanda and Amphora had watched her and she never seemed to let the device leave her person. In the confusion the assistant would probably bend down to pet Nigel, who would nuzzle her, relieve her of her phone, and pass it to Ivy.

  However when they launched their plan, things went slightly differently from the scenario they’d envisioned. First of all, Amanda caught sight of the Wiffle kid peering at them from behind a corner. She couldn’t tell if he was spying on them or waiting to pounce, and it made her nervous. Then it seemed that the assistant did not, in fact, like dogs, and did not bend down to pet Nigel. Instead, she shrank from him and pushed him away, saying “Ew!” and “Get away!” Amanda was shocked and started to panic. They had to get that phone.

  Then out of the corner of her eye she could see Ivy make a subtle gesture, to which Nigel responded by jumping up on the assistant and putting his paws on her shoulders. Needless to say, the woman didn’t like that at all and started flailing in all directions. Nigel slathered her with dog affection until she was protecting herself by holding her arms over her face and he could nuzzle her pocket. When he passed the phone to Ivy, the assistant was still cringing, oblivious to the theft, and with the prize in their possession, Ivy, Amanda, and Nigel ran to the common room (the theme of the day was coffee shop) and sat in the farthest corner to examine it.

  “What’s that?” came a voice. Uh oh. It was the Wiffle kid and that nebbish friend of his, Gordon Bramble.

  “What’s what?” said Ivy.

  “You took something from the cook’s assistant. That dog helped you. I saw it.”

  “Yeah, me too,” said Gordon.

  “We didn’t take anything. Nigel’s just friendly,” said Ivy. “What is wrong with you, anyway?”

  “You stole something and I’m going to tell,” said Wiffle. He was way more annoying than Simon. Simon had wonderful qualities to balance out—dwarf, actually—his bad ones. This kid didn’t seem to have any assets other than his name, and who cared about that?

  “Why don’t you use that wild imagination of yours for solving the class project?” said Amanda.

  “You don’t understand,” said the boy. “This school has rules. If you break them, you’re cheating.”

  “Yeah,” said Gordon.

  “We’re not breaking any rules. Go away,” said Ivy.

  The boy took out his phone and snapped a picture of the two girls with Nigel. Ivy was holding the cook’s assistant’s phone, which looked exactly like a lot of other people’s.

  “I’ve got proof,” said Wiffle. “I’m going to show this to Thrillkill.” He stuck the picture in front of them and waved it around.

  “Fine,” said Amanda, ignoring it. “You do that.”

  “I will,” he said, and the two boys walked out.

  “Boy, is he stupid,” said Ivy. “If he really wanted to get us in trouble, he’d tell the cook’s assistant, not Thrillkill.”

  “Yeah, but he might think of that,” said Amanda. “We’d better hurry. Now let me see.” She tapped and flicked, then stopped when she saw something that looked promising. “There’s a text here with a map on it.”

  “Good. What is it?” said Ivy.

  “The text is blank, but there’s a map showing someplace in London.”

  “London? That’s bad. Are you sure there isn’t anything else?”

  Amanda looked carefully, enlarging and reducing the size of the picture. “Positive. I’ve got to get there, Ivy.”

  “You can’t leave. We’re still on lockdown.”

  “I have to go. It’s the only way.” Amanda didn’t like the situation any better than Ivy did. She hadn’t spent any time in London and had no idea where anything was, but there were online maps and they were very good. She was sure she could do it, whatever “it” was.

  “What are you going to do?” said Ivy.

  “Train,” said Amanda confidently. “I just need to figure out how to get to the station.”

  “By the way,” said Ivy, “what’s the assistant’s name?”

  “Let me look . . . hm . . . oh here it is.” She scanned the screen. “Mavis Moriarty.”

  Ivy was aghast. “Moriarty? As in Professor Moriarty? You’re kidding.”

  “Seems to be,” said Amanda. “Wow. I guess they didn’t know when they hired her.”

  “No. They couldn’t have. That explains a lot. This is huge, Amanda. You should tell Thrillkill.”

  “No. I have to do this myself. He’ll rush in with guns blazing and ruin the whole thing. He’ll get my father killed.”

  “This is very dangerous. At least get Simon or Nick to go with you.”

  “I don’t want to get them in trouble. Simon is in enough hot water as it is, and I don’t want to put Nick in a bad situation. I’ll be okay. Really I will. Please don’t tell anyone. I’ll be expelled.” Suddenly it occurred to her that it actually mattered if she couldn’t attend Legatum anymore. When had she crossed over to the dark side?

  “I’m going to worry about you,” said Ivy.

  “I’ve got a backup plan,” said Amanda. “Things will be fine. Just keep your phone charged up. I’ll text you. Can you get the phone back into the assistant’s pocket as soon as possible? If she finds out it’s missing we’ll be in big trouble. Bigger than that stupid Wiffle kid even knows.”

  “Yes. No problem. But please be careful.”

  “I will. I’m going to leave first thing tomorrow.” She kissed Ivy on the cheek and gave Nigel a pat.

  Early the next morning with everyone in class, Amanda reconnoitered. It wasn’t going to be easy to get out of a locked-down school. Plainclothes constables were guarding all the gates, and everything was secured and double-bolted.

  There might be a way, though. Although no one was to enter or leave the grounds, that didn’t include delivery people. The school still needed food, and trucks were still coming and going. There would be a lot of security at the gates to make sure whoever was coming in was authorized, but she hoped there would be less checking of those who left the campus.

  She ran up to the disguise classroom. Just a few minutes remained until the next class began, so she had to work fast. She went to the hair cupboard and grabbed a brown wig. Then she ran to one of the wardrobes and chose a maid’s uniform, first in her usual size, then realizing she’d lost so much weight that it would be too big, a smaller one. Finally she selected a pair of glasses. It was a gamble, but since most people didn’t pay much attention to the maids, she figured she’d be as good as invisible. The approach had certainly worked for her the night of the explosion. She put the disguise on, hid her bag and street clothes inside some linens, and made her way down both flights of stairs without anyone noticing. However when she got to the main hall, a lot of people were milling around and the going looked treacherous.

  The best thing to do was to play her part with absolute confidence. If people saw what they expected to see, they wouldn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. She ducked into a utility closet and grabbed a trolley full of cleaning and bathroom supplies, and keeping her head down, rolled it toward the Holmes House common room and the restroom outside it. At one point a sixth-year boy gave her a good ogle (yuck) and a few of her classmates stared right at her, causing her heart to flutter, but miraculously they didn’t seem to recognize her. It was a perfect disguise and Amand
a resolved to use it again—if she survived the trip to London.

  She was just about to ditch the trolley in another supply closet when she heard Thrillkill’s voice.

  “Miss, would you come here a moment, please?”

  Oh no! The jig was up. She’d be expelled for sure and her father would die. She absolutely could not let that happen.

  Then she had an idea. Actors could make themselves appear different just by changing their facial expressions. If she did that, maybe the headmaster wouldn’t recognize her. Put on an accent and it was worth a try.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, affecting a Cockney accent and screwing up her face as subtly as she could.

  “I say, may I have a packet of those towels, please? I seem to have spilled tea in my office.”

  “Oh yes, sir.” She handed the headmaster a packet of paper towels.

  “Thank you,” said Thrillkill. “Carry on.” He gave her a wink, turned, and left.

  Amanda couldn’t believe it. She’d pulled it off. She wondered what Thrillkill would think if he knew. Now to ditch the cart and get to the delivery area. She pushed the trolley into a nearby closet and slowly walked to the south common room, then out the door.

  Spotting a large truck pulling up, Amanda watched while the driver parked in front of the gym and opened the back. Then while he was rolling the delivery into the building, she ducked inside the belly of the truck and secreted herself behind an empty carton. When the driver came back a few minutes later, he slammed the doors shut, started the engine, and drove toward the front gate.

  When the truck reached the checkpoint Amanda heard a guard ask the driver for his ID. They sat there a moment and then she heard the gate open and felt the truck surge forward. They were out of the school! She took off the disguise, changed into her own clothes, and settled in for the short drive.

  Now she’d have to figure out how to get out of the truck and to the train station. She figured the station was fifteen minutes from the school, so she was hoping the driver would stop for a cup of tea or a snack near there, but he didn’t. After thirty minutes he still hadn’t stopped, and when he was still going after forty, she started to panic. What a dumb idea. What had she been thinking?

  A million things started to race through her mind, starting with her parents and how this whole thing was their fault, although she wasn’t sure that if she’d been nearby she could have prevented her father’s kidnapping. Of course if they hadn’t moved to the UK in the first place it never would have happened. Or would it? The kidnappers could still have gotten him in L.A. A prosecutor was never really safe anywhere.

  She thought about the new friends she’d made: Ivy, Amphora, Editta, Simon, Nick. They were way better friends than the stick dogs had ever been and she felt grateful to have them, even if they could be weird sometimes. And now she really did have her own authentic stick dog, Nigel, who was the best dog ever.

  Then for some reason she thought about the whole idea of a detective’s mystique and how Simon had looked so ridiculous with that fedora. What was her mystique? Was it possible even to have a mystique when you were a Lestrade? Maybe as a filmmaker she’d develop one, but as a detective? The thought was ludicrous. What was Professor Also thinking anyway? Surely you could do a great job without having a mystique. Why did it matter?

  When you really thought about it, some of the things they were teaching were downright bizarre. Sure, you needed to understand how to process evidence, build a case, and profile suspects, but drawing rooms? Stakeout recipes? Roof walking? Either there was a lot more to being a detective than she realized or these people were nuts. She didn’t see a practical application for sending messages via cat, or using nose grease to develop photographic images. Who used film in still cameras anymore anyway?

  But she could see the utility of learning to sketch and make a record of what you saw if no camera was available. Or being able to tell how a person was feeling from the way they crossed their legs. Or processing over-large evidence. She’d never thought about these things before and suddenly she wondered why. Every one of them could be useful in making films. There was so much to know no matter what you did for a living. How would she ever know all of it? It was too much.

  After an hour, first on curvy roads and then on what felt like a freeway, Amanda felt the truck slow and pull off the road. She heard the driver get out and slam the cab door. She couldn’t open the back doors from the inside and there were no windows, so she couldn’t tell where they were or what was going on. She heard the driver say, “Edinburgh” to someone, although he pronounced it “ed-in-bo-row.” OMG! The truck was going north to Scotland, not south toward London—completely the wrong direction. She had to get out now!

  “When should we expect you?” she heard a man’s voice say.

  “I should be rolling in at about two o’clock,” said the driver, who had returned and was starting the engine again.

  What had she been thinking getting into that truck? Whatever gave her the idea that the driver would go toward Windermere? Instead, he must have gotten onto the A591 and headed for the M6. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Well, there was nothing for it now but to wait until the truck stopped again and get out.

  The driver must have been schizoid, because he alternately sped up and drove in a fashion that seemed reckless, only to change his mind and slow down. This kind of driving, plus the road itself, did not do wonders for Amanda’s sensitive stomach. However she was in luck on that front at least. After the two vomiting incidents, Simon had discovered that gingersnaps helped settle the stomach, and from then on she was never without a handful, which she now consumed. They made her thirsty, though, and there was no relief for that.

  She realized she should have told someone exactly what she was doing. She’d been arrogant and short-sighted running off secretly like that. It was that old one-man band thing of hers rearing its ugly head. She thought she’d learned to get along with people, to cooperate and share, but it seemed she hadn’t. She was just like Sherlock Holmes, and the realization made her ill despite the gingersnaps. And she was dumb just like Lestrade, which was even worse.

  The truck rolled on for an eternity. Amanda could hear rain on the roof and wished she could open it and let the drops fall into her mouth. Then a text arrived. It read “midnight.” There was an image attached, a picture of her father bloodied and beaten against a cement background. The lighting was terrible and there was a green tint to the picture. The text was anonymous, again. One thing was for sure though. It wasn’t the Wiffle boy this time.

  Amanda checked the time: one-thirty. If she was interpreting the text correctly, she had less than twelve hours to save her father. And here she was going the wrong way!

  30

  Monkeyshines

  Amanda’s arrival in Edinburgh was pretty much the exact opposite of what had happened at the school. There was no place to hide and the chance of being discovered was high.

  The truck stopped abruptly and threw Amanda across the compartment. The rain was coming down so hard that she couldn’t hear anything else. Would the driver open the back and find her? What would he do? Call the police and report a stowaway? The police. Now there was a thought she could do without. Those bunglers would throw her in jail and call the school. Her father would die and she’d be expelled and probably sent to reform school.

  The door opened slowly. She glanced around one more time but there was no way to conceal herself. As soon as he saw her the driver stared at her, dumbstruck. “Who are you?”

  “I’m so sorry, sir,” said Amanda. “Please don’t tell anyone. I promise I’ll never do it again. It’s really important that I get to London.”

  “London?” he said. “Yer going in the wrong direction, kid.” Then, before he could say another word, someone called out to him, “Thornton, come quick! Dick’s been injured!” whereupon the driver said, “Stay there” and ran off.

  They were parked behind an industrial building and the driver had jumped onto the loadi
ng dock and rushed inside, leaving Amanda alone. Having seen a million movies, it hit her at once what to do. She ran around the side of the truck, climbed into the cab, grabbed the keys, and started the engine. Her feet could barely reach the pedals. Fortunately the truck had an automatic transmission so she didn’t have to worry about clutching.

  It was a box truck, not one of those eighteen-wheelers, or she wouldn’t have been able to drive it. Since she’d never driven before, she didn’t have to overcome the right-left thing most Americans in the UK did. She just took off out of the parking lot and turned onto the road, running over the curb in the process and stalling in the street. She kept turning the key but nothing would happen. She was stuck and the driver was coming back!

  She turned the key again and pressed the brake, which of course did nothing. She didn’t actually know the accelerator from the brake, but she figured since the pedal she’d touched had had no effect she should try the other one. She turned the key once more, this time stomping on the accelerator. The truck leapt into life and surged forward with a jolt. She pressed down as hard as she could and started speeding down the street, leaving the driver behind shaking his fist.

  Amanda had no idea where to go so she just drove ahead. At first there were no cars around, parked or otherwise, so her weaving didn’t matter. But soon she was in different territory. The town, city, whatever it was, became denser, and she was driving like a drunk. She was sure she’d be caught or collide with another car or hit a pedestrian, and she started to panic. If she’d had all her wits about her she would also have realized that someone, maybe even the police, would be pursuing her, but she was too focused on steering to think such a thing. All she knew was that she had to get somewhere where no one could find her.

  Fortunately she did manage to stop at red lights, although the mass of the truck was so great that she had to press really hard on the brake to keep from sliding into the intersections. She was still thirsty but there wasn’t time to think about that. It was just go, go, go, like what happens in a dream when someone is chasing you.