Shirley Link & The Black Cat

by Ben Zackheim

  I can’t tell him everything. He wouldn’t like what I have to say, so I tell him that I’ll get back to him soon.

  Mr. and Mrs. Whatley watch us leave. Wylie snags a few more grapes before he waves goodbye.

  I don’t have any answers yet. This is a tough one. The white dust on the fridge and under the dresser could be left over from one of Mr. Watley’s clean ups. Or it could be a sign that someone broke in after trudging through that backyard.

  I see two problems with this theory: First, if the thief left footprints on the floor, the Watleys would have noticed it when they were cleaning up. Second, why would the thief only take one thing? They have a bunch of valuable stuff in that house. Usually, when the robbery is that specific, it’s an inside job.

  Neither Mr. or Mrs. Watley shows any sign of being guilty, but I need to check on something to be sure.

  As we walk, I ask my friends to check eBay on their cell phones. We search for every variation on gold box. The term turns up a lot of results, but nothing is being sold from our area. In fact, nothing is being sold from Massachusetts at all. Whoever stole the box isn’t going online to unload it, at least not yet.

  “Aw man. We have to go in there?” Marie realizes we’re headed to Gilbert’s Pawn Shop, the most depressing spot in town, where treasure becomes junk.

  We enter the dingy store and the familiar ring of the bell announces us. Mr. Gilbert, the owner, insists the bell is made of the scrap of a cannon from the HMS Sandwich, a ship from the Revolutionary War. He’s charging so much for the thing that I doubt he’ll ever sell it.

  “Hello, Shirley.” Mr. Gilbert emerges from the back room and swipes away the lingering pipe smoke with both hands. His pitch black hair is long everywhere, except on the top, where he’s bald as a glass bowl.

  “Hi, Mr. Gilbert. I have a question.”

  “You on another case?”

  One of the downsides to being out in the open as an amateur detective is that people always think I’m on a case. I can’t even order a breakfast sandwich at Mocha Maya’s without someone in line asking, Does your breakfast have anything to do with the broken window in the library? Or, Maybe you could look into this jar of honey mustard because I don’t think it’s all natural like the Hughs family claims.

  I shrug and let Mr. Gilbert draw his own conclusions. “Have you had anyone in here trying to pawn a small gold box recently?” I ask.

  “A gold box. Like a jewelry box?” I nod. He taps his chin with tobacco covered fingers. “Not in the last few years, no.”

  “If you were trying to sell something like that, what other shop would you try out?”

  “Nothing in the area. Maybe People’s Pawn down in Springfield, if you were looking for top dollar. What’s this about? Does this have to do with Ethyl?”

  “Ethyl? Mrs. Olivander? Why do you ask?”

  “She came in this morning to ask a similar question as you. But she wanted to know if anyone was trying to hawk her President Kennedy Memorial Pin. Said it went missing and she...” He pauses, but I know what he’s going to say.

  “She thinks her daughter stole it?” Marie pipes in.

  “You know Erin,” Mr. Gilbert says with a shrug. “Sticky fingers.”

  Poor Mrs. Olivander has been raising a kleptomaniac. Her daughter, Erin, could steal the nose off your face before you missed a breath. Everyone holds onto their valuables when she’s around. She’s 17, and her mom is worried that she’ll end up in jail when she becomes an adult next year. And she will, if she can’t get the urge to steal under control.

  Whenever something is missing, Erin comes to mind fast. Luckily, I haven’t had to accuse her of a crime. She always returns what she steals. No victim of her habit has ever pressed charges because she apologizes so sincerely.

  “Was Mrs. Olivander missing anything else?”

  “Dunno. But she only asked about the pin, so I assume not.”

  Odd. Another case of a single valuable item being removed from a house?

  Chapter Four

  Flus and Clues Don’t Mix

  I’m so exhausted I can barely walk straight. Wylie has his hand around my shoulder which helps keep me up, but I yearn to get to bed. Ethyl and Erin Olivander live in the house next door to me, but I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to question them about the missing John F. Kennedy pin.

  Maybe I’ll call the Watleys later. There’s no evidence that one of them stole their own gold box. I’ll keep my eyes open but, for now, all indications (however slight) are that someone did break in and take it. I’ll just have to watch eBay and Craigslist.

  Hey. Look at that.

  I spot Erin Olivander, the kleptomaniac, down the street, walking by herself.

  I think she saw us first.

  Her pace is picking up. Is she...?

  “Is Erin running away from us?” Wylie asks me, confused.

  “Sure looks like it,” Marie answers.

  Wylie’s still watching. “Should I chase her?”

  “No. I don’t want anyone to get hurt,” I tell him. “Can you cut across Mr. Tom’s back yard and get a bead on her? See where she’s running to.”

  “Sure.” He’s halfway through the yard before Marie takes his place and puts her arm around me.

  “Let’s get you home, Sweetie,” she says in her finest best friend voice. “Wylie can report back later.”

  She leads me to my front porch. Mom walks out and puts her hands on her hips.

  “Shirley Link. I tell you to get some air and you disappear for two hours?”

  “Sorry, Mom.”

  “You look like you came out of a horror movie on the wrong side of a zombie! Come on, inside with you!”

  I roll my eyes at Marie, who’s smiling at my mother’s nose for melodrama. Like me, Marie wants to be just like my mom when she grows up. I know Wylie does, too, because he told me so— that is, before he backtracked so fast that I couldn’t understand his babbling.

  Kind of like me right now. My thoughts are getting hazy. I so need some sleep.

  I lie down in bed, and just as my head settles into my pillow, I hear the cat singing his opera with a mouth full of peanut butter. Yes, I made that up, but it’s what he sounds like. He is one thoroughly talentless meower. If I could stand up, I’d throw a shoe at him. But he’d probably enjoy that.

  “It sounds like someone’s drowning in Jell-o outside your window,” Marie says, laying a hot cup of tea on my bedside table.

  “That’s the black cat.”

  “Elvis? The one everyone is talking about?”

  “They’re calling him Elvis? Why would they call him Elvis?”

  “Don’t look at me. Term of endearment, maybe.”

  “I’ve got a few terms for him, but I don’t want Mom to hear. I wish he’d go away.”

  “The trick is to give him some food. He’s been hanging at Wylie’s house recently and Wylie says that’s all he’s looking for. The cat eats. The cat leaves.”

  “I tried to feed him, but Mom won’t let me.”

  “Let me talk to her.”

  As she steps out my bedroom door, I have a dim, hazy thought. Why didn’t I check the Watley’s dusty yard for footprints?

  I’m slipping.

  I hate being sick.

  I think I fell asleep, because Marie and Wylie are suddenly standing over me, eyebrows arching into concern mode.

  “How long was I out?”

  “Ten minutes. We’re about to leave, but Wylie... “

  “Hey, the cat’s gone?” I ask.

  Marie smirks. “Yup. Fed him a slice of ham and he left. Just like I said.”

  “I think I hear him down the street,” I tell her. “Probably bugging another house. Good job, though, thanks.”

&nb
sp; “Shirley - “ Wylie tries to break in, but I can’t get my mind off that cat.

  “Hope he doesn’t come back again.”

  “I found out where Erin went,” Wylie says.

  “Was it Bobby’s?” I mumble.

  My friends look at each other, stunned. I may be slipping, but not that badly.

  “Haven’t you two noticed Bobby and Erin hanging out together at school? I think they’re a thing.”

  Wylie winces. “Bobby and Erin. That spells bad news.”

  “The prankster and the thief,” Marie mutters.

  “Don’t you two get any ideas. I don’t see any evidence pointing to them.” Wylie’s shoulders drop until he looks like an injured puppy. He gets excited when he thinks a case is heating up. “But keep an eye on the two of them for me, will you?”

  Wylie perks up again and smiles. “Absolutely, Shirley,” he says. “24 hour surveillance!”

  “Just during the school day is fine,” I manage. My eyelids are getting heavy.

  Marie winks at me and leads Wylie from the room, hand under his arm.

  I woke up once last night to hear my mom telling someone on the phone that I couldn’t talk. She had difficulty getting the caller to hang up, so I think it was one of the Watleys hoping for an update.

  It’s Saturday. I watch the sun rise outside my window. I feel better now. Not great, just better. As my head clears I find myself more curious about what’s going on. No way will Mom let me go out again today. But somehow I’ll need to find an opening.

  As if she’s read my mind, Mom appears and leans on the bedroom door frame. She glares. “I’m going to work, Shirley. Something came up. Your father is at the university. Do. Not. Move.”

  There’s my opening!

  “What came up?”

  “Robbery.”

  “Who?”

  Mom frowns. If she were psychic, I’d feel her digging around in my brain right about now for a clue to what I’m up to. “Smiths,” she finally says.

  “Just one thing stolen?”

  “Shirley Link...”

  “The same thing happened with the Watleys and Olivanders.”

  “And how would you know that?”

  “That’s where I was yesterday. New case, maybe.”

  “You are unbelievable. You step out of this house and just attract trouble.”

  “I attract cases, Mom. I’m not the one stealing anything.”

  She sighs. “Mrs. Olivander, huh?”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Erin,” we say at the same time. “That girl,” Mom finishes.”It never looks good when something goes missing and her name is anywhere in the conversation.”

  “She has a rep around school. I feel bad for her.”

  “You always do, Shirley.”

  “Not always. Only for the people who know better but just don’t quite... “

  “Know better,” Mom finishes my thought.

  “So, what now?”

  “Now, you go to sleep and I go to work and do my job.”

  “Mom... “

  “Once a day, I arrive at night, you want to play, you’ll lose the fight. What am I?”

  That’s the riddle she used on me when I was three. “Sleep,” I answer, which makes Mom smile.

  “Good niiiiiight,” she sings as she closes the door.

  It’s 8am. By 8:10, I’ll be walking down Main Street. Sorry Mom. Justice calls.

  When I’m sure I’m alone, I head out to the front porch and go over my options. The fresh air is clearing my head.

  I can go to the Watleys to check for footprints in the dusty yard. Or I can see if the Olivanders are home to ask about the missing pin.

  Or I can talk to the one person in town who will be a suspect every single time I get a new case—

  I pass Mrs. Smiley’s house. She’s outside, working on her garden. Everything looks excellent. I’m so happy for her. Ever since we helped find her family fortune (which, as it happens, is a pirate’s treasure) she’s been hard at work to get the Victorian gem in shape again.

  “Shirley!” She waves her arms at me like she’s signaling a plane to land.

  “Hi, Mrs. Smiley. What’re you up to?”

  “Oh, that black cat has been lingering around. He dug up my petunias, so I’m replanting them.” She stops short. “Goodness girl, you look like you haven’t seen sun in a year.”

  “Uh, yeah. I’ve been sick.”

  “I’m sorry. Of course. Living alone, one loses all her good manners. Would you like some lemonade? Just the thing for a Spring bug!”

  “I’ll take a rain check, Mrs. Smiley, thanks.”

  “Oh, I see. You’re on a case, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe. I’m not sure.”

  “Well, when you get time, I’d like to talk to you about something.”

  “You need me to cash in some of the treasure?”

  I’ve taken on the task of getting fair market value for Mrs. Smiley’s endless supply of gems and precious metals. Turns out my family has always had that task, since her pirate ancestor hired my Navy captain ancestor to be his confidant.

  “No, nothing like that,” Mrs. Smiley says. “Something of mine went missing three days ago. I probably just misplaced it, but I’m not sure.”

  Uh-oh. This is getting a little crazy. “What are you missing?”

  “An emerald bracelet that Frank gave me. I’ve worn it every day since he died, so I do miss it.”

  “And nothing else is gone?”

  “No. That’s why I think it may have simply slipped off my wrist somewhere. I just... I have this awful feeling. Like I’ve been violated.”

  “I promise I’ll help out. I’ll be back later, Mrs. Smiley.”

  “Thank you, Shirley.”

  The Watleys, the Olivanders, Mrs. Smiley—That makes four incidents of a single missing item, counting the police investigation for the Smith family. I could dismiss it all as circumstance when two or three incidents pop up. But four reports in one twenty four hour period? That makes a solid pattern.

  It’s back to thief-catching for me.

  Let’s start with the amusing stuff. Time to visit my favorite prime suspect..

  Chapter Five

  Officer Grumpy

  I'm totally offended you'd even ask me that!" Jacob bellows, not meaning even a single word of it. He's dressed in a snazzy suit and using an office in one of his dad's buildings. I can only imagine the trouble he's getting into, but I don't have time to babysit today.

  "Yeah, right. You're never offended by anything, and you're so psyched that I'm questioning you."

  He stares me down for about five seconds, but I won't stand for it. It's a classic scare tactic. For amateurs. He kicks back in the desk chair and puts his feet on the desk, with a grin so big he could crack one of those pearly white teeth.

  "Nope, it's not me this time, Shirley. Now that I've beaten you in battle, I see no need to stick my neck out and risk Dad's wrath."

  Jacob had been trying to outsmart me for a few months. I think it's a guy thing. Anyway, I let him believe he "beat me" a few weeks ago when he slyly led me to Mrs. Smiley's pirate treasure predicament. I didn't tell him that I caught on quickly to his plot to snag me in his adventure. I'm glad I kept my mouth shut, too. He's much more fun to be around since he started believing he's smarter than I am.

  "Fine. If you hear anything about stuff missing, let me know." I turn to leave.

  "And if you need my help, let me know."

  I stop. I'm not facing him but I'm sure he's still got that grin on his face. He really knows how to push my buttons. I close my eyes, count to three and manage to keep going.

  "You want to go to a movie?" he
asks in a strained voice.

  I stop again. This time I turn around. He's not smiling anymore. In fact, some kind of weird expression has invaded his face.

  Is that what Jacob looks like when he's nervous? His skin has turned red and his eyebrows remind me of dancing caterpillars. "I'm, uh, I need to work on this case," I manage to say.

  "Of course. Of course, yeah! Of course you do, yeah. Of course." He’s rearranging his pens on the desk.

  "Maybe when things calm down a little bit," I add.

  "Excellent. So great. Yeah. Definitely. Good luck!"

  I leave as fast as I can. I visited Jacob so I could eliminate him as a suspect. I'm relieved he appears innocent, but I'm starting to regret going. It's so confusing. A few months ago he was an enemy. He literally kidnapped me! And now he wants to go see a movie?

  All of my detective skills, and I still have no idea what makes boys so weird.

  I head to the Watley's. It doesn't appear anyone's home. I stroll around the side and study the dusty white grass for signs of footprints. Unfortunately, there are a whole bunch of them. I suspected that would be the case, but I hoped I could find some sign of a thief's path into the house.

  I reach the back yard, where the dust starts to fade and the green grass shines.

  That's when I notice them.

  Tiny little white prints in the grass.

  They're so faded, I almost miss them. I think they're a couple of days old. They lead to the dog door near the sliding doors. A small animal must have stepped in the dust and left a trail. Maybe a squirrel.

  Or a cat. I wouldn't be surprised if the tracks belonged to the black cat. He strikes me as a spectacularly awful meower who's willing to find food wherever he can. That would explain the small dust prints inside the house, including the ones on the fridge door. A hungry cat is a clever cat. He probably leaned against the fridge and meowed at it, hoping the piercing screech would shatter the door into a million pieces.