The Camp Phoenix Caper

by John V. Madormo

  Scarlett’s phone dinged and she glanced at it. “Listen, I gotta go,” she said.

  “Me too, it’s almost four o’clock,” Henry added.

  “Wait, guys,” I said.

  But a moment later, they were gone. I suppose I had that coming. We had assembled here to accomplish a task. Henry and Scarlett weren’t fans of my plan to get arrested—and yet they still made it a point to show up. And what had I done? I had managed to forget all about that and let my emotions get the best of me. Apparently it was now up to me to figure out a way to get myself tossed in jail. It couldn’t be that hard, right? I mean—people seemed to do it every day. But then I realized that I had another problem—I had to reconnect with my partners first. I had to bring them back into the fold and convince them that I wouldn’t flake out, no matter who walked through that door. They knew my track record—especially Henry. This wasn’t going to be easy.

  CHAPTER 14

  The French-Made Caper

  Before I left the house for school the next day, I decided that I had better approach my mom and bring up the topic of this camping trip. I had ruled out the idea of a weekend in the wilderness with Henry’s family. We’d never get away with that one. But what if I picked another classmate—someone my mom didn’t know very well—and someone whose mom never talked to mine? It didn’t take long to identify a likely candidate. It was a little radical, but it just might work.

  That morning my mom was in the basement doing laundry. It was as good a time as any to drop the bomb.

  “Mom, do you have a minute?”

  “What are you still doing here?” she said. “You’re going to miss your bus.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll make it,” I said. “Listen, I have an opportunity this weekend to go on a camping trip, and I just wanted to make sure it was okay.”

  She poured detergent into the washer and closed the lid.

  “A camping trip? Where to? And who with? Henry?”

  “No. Do you remember the kid that helped us get out of Olsen’s basement last month?”

  Her eyes widened. “You mean the boy who stole those birds?”

  “Mom, he was cleared of that,” I said. “Sherman’s a good guy. Really.”

  “We don’t know anything about his family,” she said.

  She wasn’t making this easy. It always seemed that whenever I stretched the truth—and even if she didn’t know that—I was in for a battle.

  “Mom, it’s gonna be a lot of fun. A bunch of kids are going.”

  She picked up the empty basket. “Do I know any of them?”

  “No, I don’t think so. But they’re all good kids. Please. I don’t want to miss it. And if I can’t go, what are the chances that you and Dad’ll ever take me camping?” There it was—the dagger. I knew my parents were anything but outdoorsmen, and a little guilt trip was the perfect weapon.

  “Your father and I are not campers. You know that.” She sighed. “Oh, all right. But I want a phone number where I can reach you in an emergency.”

  “Absolutely, Mom, I’ll be sure to get that for you.” I peeked at the clock on the wall. “Hey, I gotta run. See you later.” Yessss! I had done it. Sam Solomon would have been so proud.

  The days that followed seemed to drag by. Every day at recess, Henry, Scarlett, and I would meet up to discuss the case. Then if everyone’s schedules gelled, we would hook back up in the garage after school. By Friday afternoon, we still hadn’t come up with a strategy that would place me in a jail cell at the police station. My brain seemed to have shut down. There was nothing percolating up there. I had set a deadline for myself, and it was now looming. I would have expected a little more help from my associates, but knowing how they felt about my plan, it wasn’t surprising that they weren’t offering any suggestions. It did occur to me that by appearing stumped, Henry and Scarlett just might be playing out their own strategy—if there was no plan in place, then I couldn’t very well go through with it.

  Time was running out. As we entered Mrs. Jansen’s science class, the last period of the day, we were only a couple of hours from our self-imposed deadline. I guessed that the worst thing that could happen would be for us to delay our plan for another week, but I just hated the thought of that. It was time to make our move, and I was determined to do so. I kept trying to think of a way to get myself arrested but not end up with any sort of criminal record. I was worried about something Henry had said earlier. What if he was right? What if it would be impossible to get my private investigator’s license someday because of a blemish on my record? How could I end up in the slammer and then have all the paperwork mysteriously disappear?

  “Find your seats, everyone,” Mrs. Jansen said. “I’d like to start off class today with a murder mystery.”

  And suddenly I had forgotten all about the pending case. It was time to concentrate on something more important—one of Mrs. Jansen’s brain busters.

  “Okay, here’s the scenario,” she said. “The police are investigating an unsolved murder, and they need your help. It seems that an elderly coin collector, Mr. Watkins, was found dead in the kitchen of his home. He was found by his best friend, Mr. Tolbert, who was also fond of rare coins. Mr. Tolbert told the police that he was taking a stroll one night when he passed by Mr. Watkins’s house. He wanted to stop in and say hello, but it was late and he didn’t see any lights on. So he went around to the back of the house and noticed a light on in the kitchen, but he couldn’t see in because it was winter and there was frost on the windows. So he told the police that he wiped the frost off one of the windows and spotted his friend lying dead on the kitchen floor. That’s when he went into the house and called the police.” Mrs. Jansen smiled. “End of story,” she said. “No more clues. Who can solve this murder for us?”

  Sherman raised his hand.

  “Yes, Sherman,” she said.

  “There’s gotta be more,” he said. “We need more clues to solve it.”

  “You have everything you need in order to identify the murderer,” she said. “Who’d like to take a crack at this?”

  The room went quiet. Some kids just shook their heads. A few others were shrugging. Some threw up their arms. Everyone was stumped.

  I kept repeating the lines she had spoken. I knew that the answer was hidden somewhere.

  Henry, seated directly behind me, tapped my shoulder. “You have any idea?” he said.

  I shook my head.

  “Now, think really hard about everything you just heard,” Mrs. Jansen said.

  I began scribbling on a piece of scratch paper. I jotted down the facts of the case. Then I drew a picture of the kitchen window with frost on it…and suddenly I knew the identity of the murderer. It had taken only seconds. It was good to know I still had it. I looked around to see if anyone else had figured it out. The room was quiet. I started to raise my hand…then I froze. This was what always seemed to happen—I’d figure out the problem…desperately want to answer it…talk myself out of it…then eventually spit out the solution. Since I knew how things would ultimately turn out, I decided to act. I didn’t even wait for Mrs. Jansen to ask me. I threw my hand into the air. There was no sense wasting time. But what I hadn’t noticed was that Scarlett’s hand was also raised.

  “Well, let’s see here,” Mrs. Jansen said. “Whose hand went up first?”

  Scarlett and I stared at each other. Our hands were both still airborne. I had a bad feeling that Scarlett had actually raised her hand a split second before mine. I knew that the fair thing to do would be to let her answer it, but I didn’t want any of my classmates to think I was losing my edge. Then again, what was I worried about? What were the chances that she’d be able to solve a mystery—one that would require someone with expert problem-solving powers—before I could? It was unlikely. But anything was possible, I guess. And lately, she had shown signs of being able to compete on my level.

  I wasn’t quite sure what to do. Should I do the right thing and withdraw? Should I be a gentleman and bac
k off? It might actually help our relationship. I tried to imagine her thanking me after class for pulling out of the competition. Now, that would be worth it. But then I caught myself. Who was I kidding? I was thinking the unthinkable. I had a tendency to do that. Whether I pulled out or not, Scarlett and I would never be more than just casual friends. I had to accept that.

  “Well, I guess I’m just going to have to pick one of you,” Mrs. Jansen said.

  Should I just let Mrs. Jansen choose? And then all at once I remembered when Sam Solomon had to make a similar decision. It was in Episode #35—The French-Made Caper.

  Sam had been hired by Parisian scientist Gilles Benoît, who had invented the first prototype ballpoint pen. Benoît feared that the blueprints for his new invention had been copied by his maid and sold to a competitor. But he had no proof. To solve this one, Sam teamed up with French police, and during the investigation, he got chummy with a rookie officer by the name of Pierre Duprée. When the time came for the evidence to be presented to the client and the police chief, Sam decided to let the young officer take credit for uncovering the plot, which, as you might guess, did indeed implicate the maid. And thanks to Sam’s unselfishness, the young officer soon earned the respect and admiration of his coworkers, and he and Sam became lifelong friends.

  I slowly lowered my arm. “Now that I think about it, Mrs. Jansen, I think Scarlett had her hand up first.”

  “Oh, okay,” she said. “Scarlett, can you give us the identity of the murderer and tell us how you came to your conclusion?”

  Scarlett stood up sheepishly. You could tell she was unaccustomed to being in the spotlight—at least when it came to solving brainteasers.

  “Here’s how I see it,” she said. “The murderer has to be the victim’s friend, Mr. Tolbert. And here’s why. Now unless I’m mistaken, frost forms on the inside of windows in the winter, not on the outside. Since Mr. Tolbert told the police that he wiped the frost off the outside of the kitchen window, it is clear he was lying. He obviously killed his friend, probably for some rare coin, and then made it look like a home invasion of some kind. It was the friend. I’d bank on it.”

  Mrs. Jansen smiled and looked in my direction. “Since you’re the resident authority on brain busters in this class, Charlie, would you like to add anything?”

  “Nope,” I said. “Nothing to add. She nailed it.”

  “She nailed it indeed,” Mrs. Jansen said. “Well done, Scarlett.”

  By the looks on the faces of other kids in class, most seemed surprised that Scarlett had beaten me to the punch. If called upon, I would have answered the question in the same manner, but for some reason, I wasn’t upset about someone else receiving kudos—as long as it was Scarlett or Henry, that is. I could now see why Sam allowed his friend Pierre to take the credit. It felt really good. For the remainder of the period, I noticed Scarlett glancing at me and smiling. This was truly a win-win.

  • • •

  Scarlett, Henry, and I met up at the bus stop after school. Henry seemed anxious to know where things stood with the case.

  “So, have you figured out something yet or do we put this crazy plan of yours on hold?” he said.

  I had gotten so wrapped up in the brain buster in Mrs. Jansen’s class and watching Scarlett in action that I had completely forgotten to think up a way to get tossed in jail. But I wasn’t going to let that stop me. I had no intention of delaying things just because I was stuck. I would just proceed and force myself to concoct a plan before time ran out.

  “Meet me in front of the police station in an hour,” I said. “The Camp Phoenix Caper is on.”

  “What do you plan to do?” Scarlett asked.

  I guess that I could have just told them the truth—that I had no idea—but it seemed more fun to add a little drama.

  “You’ll see when you get there,” I said.

  “Okay,” she said. “See you in an hour.” Scarlett immediately began looking for her mom’s car and was off.

  Henry and I waited another couple of minutes for our bus in silence. I knew he probably wanted to ask me about my plan, but he knew I’d never tell. When the bus eventually pulled up, we hopped on board and talked about things unrelated to the case until we reached Henry’s stop. Once I was finally alone, I put the old noodle to work. In the time it took to reach my house—ten minutes or so—I was determined to have mapped out a strategy. But minutes later I realized I had failed.

  “Collier,” a voice rang out. “This is your stop. Let’s go.”

  I awoke from my trance, grabbed my backpack, and exited the bus. As I trudged the last two hundred yards to my front door, instead of working on a plan, I now found myself trying to think up an excuse to tell Henry and Scarlett as to why we would need to reschedule. This was going to be embarrassing. I had hoped that Mrs. Jansen’s brainteaser would awaken something in me. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the business card that my grandmother had given me. Here I was, the proprietor of my own detective agency and unable to devise a plan of attack. I didn’t deserve to be a member of my own firm.

  When I walked into the house, I noticed my mom sitting on her bed with dozens of papers spread all over.

  “Charlie,” she said. “Come in here. I want to show you something.”

  “I’m in kind of a hurry, Mom. Can we do this later?”

  “No, we can’t,” she said. “This’ll only take a minute.”

  I reluctantly joined her in the bedroom.

  She picked up one of the papers and smiled. “Look at this. How old do you think you were when you did this?” She was holding a drawing that I had done when I was a kid. I took a closer look at the other papers on the bed. They were all pictures I had drawn or painted when I was small.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe six.”

  She flipped it over. “You were only four,” she said. “Imagine a four-year-old drawing a picture of his family with such detail.” She sighed. “I have to be honest. There was a time when I thought you might grow up to become a commercial artist or a famous painter maybe.”

  I smiled back. Were we done here? I needed to go.

  “Remember that old milk crate,” she said, “the one you kept all of your art supplies in?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “It’s still downstairs somewhere. I should pull it out sometime,” she said. “Wouldn’t that be fun to look through?”

  “Oh yeah,” I said sarcastically. And then something on the corner of the bed caught my eye. I walked over and picked it up. “Of course. This just might work,” I said under my breath.

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  My mom glanced at the clock on her dresser. “You’d better hurry,” she said. “Are you all packed?”

  “Packed? For what?”

  “For your big camping trip with Sherman’s family. Don’t tell me you forgot?”

  Oh, brother, I had forgotten. I was starting to get careless. “No, no, I didn’t forget.”

  “Well, listen,” she said, “I put some clean underwear and socks on your bed.”

  “Okay, thanks.” I turned to leave.

  “You know, I’m still wondering if I should call Sherman’s mother and introduce myself.”

  No. She couldn’t do that. It would ruin everything. “Mom, you can’t call. It’ll make me look like a baby. Nobody else’s parents have called.”

  “Now, how would you know that?” she said.

  “I just know.”

  She shook her head. “Oh, all right. But don’t forget to leave me a number for Sherman’s mom before you go.”

  “You got it,” I said. “Hey, I’d better go finish packing.” I smiled and exited. But before I went to my room, I ran downstairs. I had to find that milk crate with the art supplies in it.

  For the better part of twenty minutes, I nearly ransacked the basement. And just when I was about to give up, I noticed something under some of the Christmas decorations next to the furnace.

 
“Eureka,” I yelled. I pulled out the crate and began rummaging through it. As soon as I found what I was looking for, I slid it into my back pocket and headed upstairs. On the way to my room, I grabbed yesterday’s newspaper off the living room coffee table. Things were finally falling into place, but I was running out of time. When I got to my room, I spotted the clean underwear and socks my mom had left for me. I stuffed them into a drawer. I was certain I wouldn’t be gone long enough to need them. Then I dumped the contents of my backpack onto my bed and started crumpling up sheets of newspaper and stuffing them in. The backpack needed to look like it was full of clothes and stuff, but I didn’t actually want to carry around anything heavy.

  “Looks like you’ll be catching up on current events this weekend, huh?” a voice said. My grandmother was standing in the doorway.

  “Oh, hi, Gram.” I nonchalantly zipped the backpack closed. I tried to appear as innocent as possible, but it was clear that she had seen what I was doing.

  “Now, it’s none of my business, Charlie, but something tells me that you’d need to pack a lot more than some old newspapers for a weekend camping trip.”

  My shoulders slumped. “Gram, please don’t tell Mom and Dad.”

  “I can keep a secret,” she said. “But I need to know what’s going on.”

  “It’s a long story,” I said.

  She pushed my schoolbooks to the side, sat down on the bed, and folded her arms. “This has something to do with your case, doesn’t it?”

  I knew that my grandmother was probably the only person I could talk to about this caper without fear of getting into trouble. But I also knew that if she thought my plan was too dangerous, she was more than capable of ratting me out—for my own safety, that is. At this point, however, I was out of options. She knew that I was trying to deceive my parents. I had no choice but to spill it.

  “Gram, I think I know where Josh Doyle is. He’s the missing person we’ve been trying to find. But I can’t confirm it.” I pointed to my backpack. “This is the only way I can think of finding out.”

  “I think you’ve left out some parts,” she said.