To Mom & Dad,
my handy-dandy references
for inspiration, answers, and hugs
M. T.
For the editor extraordinaire,
Meredith Mundy Wasinger—
truly a pleasure to work with and a master
at the fine art of nurturing and nudging
B. J. N.
STERLING and the distinctive Sterling logo are registered
trademarks of Sterling Publishing Co., Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
09/09
Published by Sterling Publishing Co., Inc.
387 Park Avenue South, New York, NY 10016
Text © 2003, 2009 by Michele Torrey
Illustrations © 2003, 2009 Barbara Johansen Newman
All rights reserved
Sterling ISBN 978-1-4027-4964-3
Sterling eBook ISBN: 978-1-4549-0398-7
For information about custom editions, special sales, premium
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CONTENTS
One • Situation Critical
Two • Barfy Business
Three • In the Bag
Four • A Terrible Tragedy
Five • Barko’s SuperMart
Six • Snob Club
Seven • Ghost Busting
Eight • The Pits
Nine • A Foolproof Plan
Activities and Experiments for Super-Scientists
It was a perfectly lazy Sunday afternoon in the small town of Mossy Lake. Just the sort of day for a barbecue or a stroll in the park.
Unless you happened to be Drake Doyle.
Tucked away in his attic lab, surrounded by test tubes, Drake was up to his ears in experiments. Sometimes he said, “Aha!” if things went especially well. Or sometimes, if things didn’t go precisely so, he exclaimed, “Great Scott!” or even “Egads!”
Drake’s cinnamon-colored hair stuck straight up, as if he’d seen a ghost. (Which he had, but that’s another story.) He looked quite spiffy in his lab coat, because it had his name on it. A pencil stuck out from behind his ear.
Drake punched numbers into his calculator and peered at the results. He scribbled in his lab notebook:
Incredible, but true.
Numbers crunch perfectly.
Analysis a success.
But before he could call his partner, Nell Fossey, and tell her about his perfectly crunching numbers, the phone rang.
“Doyle and Fossey,” he answered.
You see, Drake never answered his phone in any other way. The reason was simple. Drake was a professional. In fact, he and Nell were the most professional amateur science detective team in the fifth grade. Whenever there was a nasty case to solve (or even a not-so-nasty case), Drake and Nell were the ones to call. Already they’d solved many cases involving ghosts, monsters, and kidnapped parrots, to name a few. Their business cards read:
“Detective Doyle?” said the caller.
Drake recognized Zoe Jackson’s voice. Zoe was in Drake and Nell’s class. Just yesterday, they had attended a birthday party for her and her twin sister, Chloe. Zoe was a nice girl, and a health nut besides.
She jogged to school, drank her protein lunch, and ran an exercise program called “Fabulous Fitness for Flabby Folks” on rainy days during recess.
“Oh, hi, Zoe. What seems to be the problem?”
“Can you and Nell hurry to the emergency room at Mossy Lake Hospital?” asked Zoe.
Drake nearly dropped the phone. The hospital! Great Scott! This had to be critical! Drake kept his voice calm. “You can count on us, Ms. Jackson. We’ll be there. ASAP.”
He wasted no time before calling Nell. “I’ll pick you up, ASAP. Situation critical.”
“Check.”
Click.
Drake sprang to his feet, grabbed some essential equipment, and hurried down the attic stairs. “Dad! Dad!”
“What! What!” Mr. Sam Doyle met him at the bottom of the steps, looking very worried.
“Situation critical! Nell and I need a ride to the ER, ASAP!”
“Oh. Whew! For a second there, I thought you’d blown up the lab.”
Together they hurried out to the car. Soon they were racing toward Nell’s house. You see, no one could speed around corners quite like Mr. Doyle. Plus, he owned a science equipment and supply company. If Drake needed anything for his lab, he only had to ask. Computers, beakers, lab coats with their names on them, test tubes—it didn’t matter so long as Drake didn’t blow up the lab. (He’d only blown up the lab three times so far, but who’s counting?)
They screeched to a stop in front of Nell’s house. She was waiting for them on the sidewalk and looked ready to tackle anything. Hair the color of coffee was pulled into a tight ponytail, guaranteed to stay out of the way while speeding around corners. She slid into the backseat, buckled her seat belt, and gripped the armrest. “Step on it, Mr. Doyle.”
“Check.”
Va-room!
They turned here. They turned there. Meanwhile, Drake told Nell about his phone conversation with Zoe. Finally, they screeched to a stop in front of the hospital. Screech!
And off they rushed. (Unfortunately, Drake didn’t see the glass doors and ran right into them with a bonk! Nell had to rub his head until he stopped looking cross-eyed.)
Nell opened the door for Drake, and they hurried inside. The emergency room was packed. Nurses hollered, “Code Purple!” Doctors said, “This won’t hurt a bit.” Grandmas moaned, “Ohhh.” Grandpas groaned, “Bleh.” Babies wailed, “Wah!” Parents cried, “Get me outta here!”
And in the middle of all that hubbub, someone grabbed Nell’s arm. It was Zoe. She was wearing sunglasses and a trench coat. “Shh,” she whispered. “This way.” She led them behind a big leafy plant. “No one can see us here.”
Drake and Nell exchanged glances. “What seems to be the trouble, Ms. Jackson?” asked Drake. “Why the secrecy?”
“It’s my twin sister, Chloe.” Zoe parted the plant and pointed across the lobby. Indeed, there sat Chloe. Both Drake and Nell gasped because, you see, Chloe didn’t look like she usually did. Normally Chloe was happy and smiling. Today, however, she looked terribly, terribly sick.
And while they watched, Chloe bent over a basin on her lap and . . . well . . . barfed. (No delicate way to explain it, really, except to just say it like it is.)
“Eew,” said Zoe.
“Ugh,” said Nell.
“Oh dear,” said Drake.
Zoe sighed. “She’s been doing that all day. At this rate, she’ll turn inside out before the doctors even call her name. Poor, poor Chloe!”
Nell flipped open her lab notebook and whipped a pencil out from behind her ear. “Why don’t you take it from the top, Ms. Jackson.”
Zoe nodded. She cleared her throat. She paced just a wee bit. (Pacing is limited behind big, leafy plants.) “You see . . .”
“Yes?” asked Drake, his pencil poised over his notebook.
Zoe adjusted her sunglasses. She paced a bit more. “You see . . .”
“Yes?” asked Nell, tapping her foot.
Finally Zoe stopped. She peered over her sunglasses and looked them square in the eye. “I think I poisoned my sister.”
“Poisoned your sister?” Drake and Nell said together.
“Shh! Lower your voices,” said Zoe. “I’m looking at life in prison here. Maybe only ten years, if I’m lucky.”
“But how—” started Drake.
“But why—” started Nell.
“Believ
e me, it was an accident. This morning Chloe said she didn’t have any energy, so I fixed her a health shake.”
“And what was in this health shake?” asked Nell.
“Let me see . . . peanuts, milk, fish oil, carrot juice, spinach, garlic, oranges, anchovies, and vanilla ice cream—nonfat, of course. Just the thing for boosting energy.”
“And she drank it?” asked Drake, shuddering at the thought.
Zoe nodded. “Every drop. And that’s when it all . . . you know . . . started. Oh, poor, poor Chloe!”
“Indeed,” murmured Drake, jotting everything down.
“Quick question, Ms. Jackson,” said Nell, making a few final notes. “What exactly is it you want us to do?”
Drake looked at his partner, stunned. It was a brilliant question and he was surprised he hadn’t thought of it, too.
“I want you to make an antidote to counteract the poison.” Zoe stopped pacing and stuck her hands in her trench-coat pockets. “You’re my last chance between freedom and prison. You’re my last chance to save Chloe. Unless, of course, I call Frisco.”
Frisco! Drake and Nell exchanged horrified looks. James Frisco was also in their fifth-grade class at school. Like Doyle and Fossey, Frisco was a scientist, but that’s where the resemblance ended. You see, Frisco enjoyed it when beakers bubbled over. Frisco grinned when things exploded. Frisco laughed out loud while pouring dangerous chemicals down the drain.
Frisco’s business cards read:
Drake could never let Zoe call Frisco! If Zoe called Frisco, he’d likely fill a bottle with dishwater, call it an antidote, and charge her five bucks plus tax and a tip. Who knows what would happen to Chloe without a proper antidote! The thought was too terrible to imagine!
“Never fear, Ms. Jackson, we’ll take the case,” said Drake.
“Say,” said Nell, peering through the plant to where Chloe was sitting. “Isn’t that your mother sitting beside Chloe?”
“Yes,” answered Zoe, “what about her?”
“She looks sick, too.”
Drake agreed. Mrs. Jackson was the color of mashed peas, with perhaps a splotch of spinach green here and there.
Zoe nodded. “Yes, but she didn’t drink any health shake, so there’s no worry there.”
“And isn’t that Lilly Crump sitting two seats away from Mrs. Jackson?” asked Nell.
Drake pushed up his glasses. Egads! Nell was right again! Just like Chloe and Chloe’s mother, Lilly was barfing into a basin!
“Hmm,” said Nell, “the last time we saw Lilly was yesterday at the birthday party.”
“I have a hunch,” said Drake, his mind working furiously.
“Ditto,” said Nell.
They pulled on surgical gloves.
Snap! Snap!
They marched across the waiting room.
“Afternoon, Chloe,” said Drake, patting her on the shoulder.
“Ooooooh, help me,” she moaned.
“Sorry you’re not feeling well,” said Drake.
Nell patted her other shoulder. “Do you mind if we examine you? Perhaps we can help.”
“Anything,” said Chloe weakly.
“Just try to relax,” said Nell. “This will be over in a jiffy.”
Mrs. Jackson moved over a couple of seats to make room for them. “Do whatever you need to do,” she said.
“Check,” replied Drake and Nell. They took Chloe’s pulse. They took her temperature. They had her say “Aaaaah.” They asked her and her mother a few questions. Then, just as Drake was pondering, Chloe leaned over, missed the basin, and . . . well . . .
Barf! . . .
Splat! . . .
. . . all over Drake’s shoes. (It was one of those curious scientific moments when, just for a second or two, Drake wished he’d picked a different career.)
Chloe groaned. “Sorry.”
But Drake was a professional. Even when splattered with barf. “No problem. Now, if you’ll excuse us.”
“Indeed,” said Nell with a nod. “Get well soon.”
And after questioning Lilly, plus a quick trip to the restroom for barf removal, both Drake and Nell were ready for action.
“There’s no time to lose!” cried Nell. “Back to the lab for analysis!”
“And a shower . . .” added Drake.
Drake pulled a book off the shelf and sat next to Nell at the lab table.
He flipped through the pages until he found the right section: “Situation Critical: What to Do When You’ve Given Your Twin Sister a Health Drink and She Barfs and Barfs and Barfs.” After Drake read the section aloud, they discussed their observations. (Good scientists always discuss their observations.)
Finally, Drake said, “I have developed a hypothesis.” (A hypothesis, as every good scientist knows, is a scientist’s best guess as to what is happening.)
“Couldn’t have said it better myself, Detective Doyle,” said Nell with a nod after Drake had explained his idea. “Let’s test it.”
And so, they got to work. In this case, it was detective work. Telephone detective work, to be precise. They were into their fifth phone call when Drake’s mother, Kate Doyle, poked her head around the door. “Do you two brilliant scientists want anything to eat or drink? Hot chocolate, perhaps? Deviled eggs? A muffin or two?”
“Muffins,” said Drake. “Blueberry. Hold the hot chocolate.”
“Coffee,” said Nell. “Decaf. Black. And two deviled eggs. No, make it three.” (In case you weren’t up on the latest in the scientific world, real scientists don’t drink hot chocolate. Ditto for real detectives. They prefer coffee. Decaf. Black. With muffins upon occasion. And don’t forget the deviled eggs.)
“No problemo,” replied Mrs. Doyle. Just as Drake’s dad was great for science equipment and driving fast, Drake’s mom was fabulous for food and drink. In fact, Mrs. Doyle owned her own company: Kate Doyle’s Fab Foods.
One phone call and one chart later, Mrs. Doyle was back with hot coffee (decaf, black), muffins (blueberry), and eggs (deviled).
“Now eat those eggs right away,” said Mrs. Doyle. “Don’t let them get warm, because you know what can happen . . .” And she warned them about the dangers that could lurk in food kept out of the fridge for too long.
“Thanks for the hot tip, Mom,” said Drake.
“And thanks for the fab food,” said Nell, before popping a deviled egg into her mouth.
After Mrs. Doyle left, Drake and Nell returned to making phone calls and drawing charts.
The phone calls sounded a lot alike.
“Hello?” the person would answer, usually in a very weak or wobbly sort of voice. Then Drake or Nell would ask a few questions about yesterday’s birthday party. Then they’d have to wait while . . . barf! . . .
Then, Drake or Nell would say, “Get to the ER, ASAP. Situation critical.”
After each phone call, Drake and Nell filled in more details on the master chart. (Details like who was sick, who ate a hamburger, who took a refreshing dip in the pool, and so forth.)
Finally, three muffins and two and a half cups of decaf later, Nell announced, “We have our answer! Quick! Back to the hospital!”
While Mr. Doyle’s car screeched around this corner and that corner, Nell called her mom, Professor Ann Fossey, on Mr. Doyle’s cell phone. “I’ll be home in an hour, maybe less. The Case of the Barfy Birthday is in the bag,” replied Nell.
“That’s nice, honey. I hope you’re remembering to wash your hands frequently.” Now, this might seem like an odd thing for a parent to say, but for Professor Fossey it was perfectly normal. Professor Fossey was a scientist herself. She taught wildlife biology at Mossy Lake University, and so she knew all about good laboratory technique and washing your hands.
“Don’t worry, Mom. It’s in the bag.”
When they arrived, the ER was very crowded. Sitting with Chloe, Mrs. Jackson, and Lilly were all of the people Drake and Nell had phoned.
Zoe dashed up and pulled Drake and Nell behind the potted plant
. “Quick! The antidote!”
Drake and Nell glanced at each other. “We apologize, Ms. Jackson,” Drake said gravely, “but there is no antidote.”
There followed a moment of stunned silence (if you ignored the general hubbub). Then Zoe paced, talking aloud. “I wonder if there’s still time to hire Frisco. Or jog to the Mexican border.”
“Relax, Zoe,” said Nell. “No antidote is needed.”
Zoe looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“You didn’t poison your sister,” said Drake.
Zoe’s mouth dropped open.
“Allow Scientist Nell to explain,” added Drake.
Now it was Nell’s turn to pace behind the plant. “Imagine yourself lying in bed. You roll over just as your alarm clock rings. Now, did your alarm clock go off because you rolled over? Of course not. They merely happened at the same time.”
Zoe glanced at her watch. “I really should be getting to the Mexican border.”
“You see, Ms. Jackson,” Nell continued, “just because two things appear to be related does not mean that they are. You thought you poisoned your sister because she barfed when she drank the health shake. The truth is, she was already sick, and your health shake just tasted nasty.”
“Are you sure?” asked Zoe. “That’s good, I guess. But what made her sick?”
“Excellent question,” said Nell.
Drake pushed up his glasses. “We first became suspicious when we observed that your mother was also sick. And, of course, there was Lilly Crump, green as a guppy. Coincidence? Maybe. To find out, we did a little investigating.”
“We discovered that all three had become sick at the same time,” said Nell. “And all three were at your birthday party yesterday.”
“Very suspicious indeed,” said Drake.
“So you think something at the party made them sick?” asked Zoe.
Drake nodded. “Precisely. We called everyone who attended the party. We wanted to know where they sat, what they ate, and so on.”
“I don’t understand,” said Zoe.
“You soon will. Chart, please!” ordered Nell.
Drake unrolled a chart. Nell whipped out her wooden pointer and whapped the chart. “Observe. Out of the eighteen people who attended the party, eleven became sick. You will notice that everyone who became sick had one thing in common. They all ate the chicken salad. Those who didn’t eat the chicken salad didn’t get sick.”
Case of the Barfy Birthday Page 1
