by Dave Keane
But I must admit, that was the friendliest she’s been in six months.
Suddenly I realize the phone is barking in alarm because I forgot to hang it up. And I’m still wearing my Inspector Wink-Wink slippers. Worse yet, I’m wasting time while poor Grandma Asher is floating so many air biscuits that every small bird in the neighborhood may be in danger.
“We haven’t a moment to spare,” I say to the empty kitchen. I’m not sure why I say this; it’s just something Sherlock Holmes always says when he’s late for a train.
It doesn’t make me feel any better.
Because deep down inside, I know that I’m about to come face-to-face with my greatest fear in the world…the dark.
Chapter Seven
Howl
As I wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, the moon looks down at me like a giant panic button. Then it disappears, gobbled up by clouds.
“Sherlock!”
I flinch and spin around in my best kung fu fighting stance.
“Oh, please,” Hailey snorts, coming out onto the porch. “You’d be better off just lying on the ground and playing dead.”
“You almost gave me a heart attack,” I grumble.
“You’ll need this,” she says, handing me a pink Girl Chat Sleepover backpack. (I lost my own backpack in an unfortunate fishing accident.) “And you’ll need this,” she says, clipping a matching Girl Chat Sleepover walkie-talkie to my belt.
“I can’t wear this,” I complain, holding up the backpack. “It’s for girls.”
“Listen, Sherlock,” she says, waving a finger in my face. “This is the real deal. This is not a drill.
This is not one of your dumb detective movies. So if Dad won’t let me go with you, you’re not leaving here with just a magnifying glass in your back pocket.”
“Okay! Okay!” I surrender, pulling my arms through the thin straps of the daisy-covered backpack. “I just hope nobody sees me.”
“It’s packed with everything you might need,” Hailey explains, looking me over. “Now you’re fully equipped with a flashlight, your fingerprint kit, a whistle, a comb, a clean pair of underwear, twelve plastic bags for collecting evidence, a notepad, six pencils, a watch, and a compass.”
“Please don’t touch my underwear ever again!” I exclaim. “That’s gross.”
“Oh, I also put some leftover crab cakes in there,” she says, ignoring my concern for the privacy of my underwear drawer.
“I hate crab cakes,” I protest.
“They’re just a diversion in case you’re attacked by a pack of hungry dogs,” she explains.
I must admit I feel a little safer with the backpack on.
“Too bad it’s such a spooky night,” she says, peering up at the moon dodging in and out of the dark clouds. “Especially since you’re the only kid I know who needs three night-lights.”
“Do you think werewolves like crab cakes?” I ask, watching the moon.
“If you’re not back by nine o’clock, we’ll assume the worst has happened,” she says.
Before I can chicken out, I begin walking toward the dark end of Baker Street.
Chapter Eight
Red Leader
“Red Leader! This is Blue Fox! Do you copy? Over.”
It’s the walkie-talkie Hailey clipped to my belt. I’m only a few houses away, and she’s already calling me.
“Hailey?” I ask while pushing down a little daisy-shaped button on the walkie-talkie.
“Red Leader! This is not a secure line. Do not use real names. I repeat, do not use real names on this frequency! Over.”
Is she kidding? “Um…okay, Blue Fox,” I say into the walkie-talkie. Geez, do I feel like an idiot.
“You forgot to say ‘over’! Over!” blares the tiny voice amid a storm of static.
“Uh, okay…over,” I say, trying to keep my voice down.
“Red Leader! What’s your ten-twenty? Over!” Hailey’s voice barks through the miniature speaker.
“What’s that mean, Red Leader? Over,” I say, looking around to make sure nobody is looking out their windows.
“Hey, you’re Red Leader! I’m Blue Fox. Ten-twenty means your location. Over.”
I’m getting a headache that’s three miles wide. “I just left! I’m only four houses away from our house, for goodness sake! Now leave me alone. Over and out.” I clip the walkie-talkie back on my belt.
“Roger that, Red Leader!” Hailey’s voice booms out into the night. “Have you used that extra pair of underwear yet?” she giggles.
I stop walking and turn the volume way down. “It’s hard to get good help these days,” I say to nobody in particular.
Now I know why the great Sherlock Holmes didn’t use a walkie-talkie. You can’t concentrate on the case at hand while someone is hollering at you all night about your supply of emergency underwear.
I pick up my pace, worried that I’ve just wasted valuable mystery-solving minutes yakking with the irritating Blue Fox.
Before long, I swear I hear the ragged breathing of bloodthirsty hounds in every shadow. I think I hear footsteps behind me. For some reason, I can smell my mom’s beef stew with broccoli and lima beans—which is about as terrifying as it gets.
Just as my stomach starts twisting into a pretzel shape at the imagined odor of my mom’s nasty beef stew…
I feel the trembling, bony fingers of the Grim Reaper as he rests his hand on my right shoulder, ready to pull me into the next world, kicking and screaming. Without thinking, I run for my life.
Chapter Nine
Speed Demon
I may not be the smartest kid in my class, but I am the fastest.
By far.
In fact, I’m easily the fastest kid in my school. Maybe even the whole state. Don’t ask me why. Even Dr. Bell says it makes no sense because I have such flat feet. They’re so flat that whenever I step on a floor that my mom just mopped, my feet get stuck like two industrial-strength suction cups. My mom has to slide a spatula under each foot to free me. It’s humiliating.
Except for solving mysteries and running like a greased pig shot out of a cannon, I’m usually pretty average.
But you should see me run.
Especially with the Grim Reaper on my tail.
My best friend, Lance, has a model of the Grim Reaper in his bedroom. It’s one of those creepy things that I try not to think about, but the harder I try, the more I can’t help but think about it. I hate that.
In case you’ve never heard of him, the Grim Reaper is a tall skeleton guy who floats around with a sword stuck to the end of a big walking stick. He wears a shabby old robe with a hood that’s so big he can’t possibly see who he is terrifying.
And then it hits me….
That’s not the bony fingers of the Grim Reaper tapping me on the back.
That’s my dad’s cell phone vibrating in Hailey’s Girl Chat Sleepover backpack! I come to a complete stop just one house away from Mr. Asher’s house.
Hailey never mentioned putting the cell phone in the backpack. It must be her backup plan if the walkie-talkie doesn’t work.
I yank the phone from the backpack and snap it open. “Hello?” I gasp.
“Sherlock, it’s me!” Hailey exclaims. “Dad’s gone. He’s disappeared!”
Chapter Ten
Toe Break
“How can a guy who can barely walk disappear?” I thunder into my dad’s cell phone.
“How should I know!” Hailey yelps in exasperation. “You’re the detective in the family.”
I’ve seen a lot of Sherlock Holmes movies. Probably every one ever made. And one thing is for sure: he only dealt with one mystery at a time. Now I know why.
I think the great Mr. Holmes knew that when you try to think about two mysteries at once, your brain starts to melt like a stick of warm butter on the hood of an overheating car. It turns into sizzling butter goop.
“Where could he have possibly gone?” I ask. “To kick field goals? To stomp grapes? Maybe he
suddenly decided to learn how to kickbox!”
“I thought he might be with you,” she says.
“No, it’s just me and the Grim Reaper out here,” I mumble, looking up at the sky in frustration.
“Who’s Jim Reaper?” she asks.
Why can’t I just solve mysteries like a normal detective in the movies?
“Hailey,” I say as calmly as I can after setting a new world record for sidewalk sprinting, “just look for him. Ask Jessie to help you. Let me know what you find out.”
Hailey grunts in frustration. “Thanks for all your wonderful help. You’re my hero!”
The phone goes silent in my ear.
I look up at the Ashers’ house and silently wish for no more phone calls, footraces, or panic attacks.
I don’t like my odds.
Chapter Eleven
Crime Scream
Mr. Asher might as well hang a sign that says, “GHOSTS WELCOME!”
The Asher home is located on a big plot of land at the very end of Baker Street. It leans a little to the left, so if you stare at it for too long you end up falling over like a guy with a serious inner-ear infection.
I begin to feel a little wobbly, so I’m careful not to stare at the house for longer than a few seconds at a time.
Looking at the Ashers’ house makes me consider what motive someone might have for terrifying the Asher family.
“Motive” is a fancy word they use in detective movies. It means reason, but why they always have to use an uppity word like “motive” when “reason” would work just fine is something I haven’t figured out yet. “So,” I ask, “what reason would someone have to try to scare the people who live in this house?”
In detective movies, when the main guy is hired to investigate strange, weird, and ghostly-type stuff, it usually turns out to be the work of some bad guys wearing goofy ape costumes. These bad guys are always trying to scare an old couple off their property so they can build an eight-lane highway right where the couple’s living room happens to be.
After you’ve seen a few hundred of these movies, you learn one thing: Heroes almost always have a big chin.
I make a mental note to ask Mr. Asher if there’s anyone who wants him to move off his property. If I can figure out a motive, I might get a jump on why these strange and unexplained things are happening.
Breaking down a puzzling mystery into simple steps like this is an important skill of the successful detective. It always makes me feel better.
But I don’t feel better for long.
Because at that very moment, a thunderous, head-snapping roar blasts through the night air. My guts quiver. My lungs vibrate. My stomach feels like it’s filled with three hundred nervous grasshoppers.
I secretly wish my chin were bigger.
Chapter Twelve
Barf Bath
I cover my ears in front of Mr. Asher’s left-leaning, nail bag of a house and I imagine that I’m about to be snatched up into the jaws of a Tyrannosaurus rex, flipped into the air like a helpless rag doll, and swallowed whole like a Swedish meatball.
But no dinosaur appears.
In fact, the earsplitting roar stops as suddenly as it started.
Wait!
This is ridiculous. My imagination is out of control! I need to think clearly for once in my life!
Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in again. Relax.
Think. Think. Think!
What exactly am I dealing with here?
I smack my forehead a few times with my fist—which is how I try to get most things to start working properly.
Is this real? Is this some sinister plot cooked up to scare the Ashers? Or is this the work of something ghostly? I stroke my small chin as I consider the endless possibilities.
I feel in my bones that something is not right here. Or perhaps it’s the smell of my own fear leaking out of my skin. Maybe I need that fresh pair of underwear.
Before I can figure out a suitable answer, the front door of the Ashers’ home bangs open. “Sherlock! Please, come quick!” Mr. Asher hollers. “The ghost is back! There isn’t a moment to lose!”
Chapter Thirteen
Bundt Cakes and Black Holes
As I stumble through the Ashers’ door, I am struck by the sickening smell of raw terror in the air.
“That’s not a Girl Chat Sleepover backpack, is it?” Mr. Asher asks.
I can’t seem to think of an answer to his question. There are too many alarm bells going off in my head. The foul smell from outside is also in Mr. Asher’s house! It doesn’t take long to realize what’s going on: I’ve walked right into Grandma Asher’s gas problem! It’s a choking haze that I can only describe as a mixture of vinegar, spoiled milk, hard-boiled eggs, and burned meat loaf.
I grab Mr. Asher’s shoulder to steady myself. “Silent but deadly, indeed,” I gasp.
I consider the very real possibility that if someone were to strike a match, the Ashers’ house might erupt into an enormous ball of flames. The explosion could quite possibly take out the entire neighborhood. Maybe even some nearby towns. Heck, this side of the Earth could vanish altogether.
It’s at this point things get a little blurry. I hear nervous voices. I sense chaos. I see Mrs. Asher walking down the hallway wearing strands of garlic around her neck and what appear to be asparagus tips in her ears. My eye stops on Grandma Asher coming through the swinging door to the dining room. My eyes widen as I realize that she is winking at me—No! Not winking…she just hasn’t found her missing eye yet!
Only after leaning over the sink to place my trembling nostrils as close to the open kitchen window as possible, I slowly, carefully assemble the important details of what is quickly becoming my living nightmare.
The loud, thundering roars happen about every hour or so. Shortly after Mrs. Asher’s first bundt cake disappeared, Grandma Asher baked another bundt cake to replace it. It disappeared, too, from the windowsill above the sink. Grandma Asher’s glass eye was left near the cake to keep an eye on it. That plan didn’t work. Most troubling, there are still strange banging noises coming from the toolshed in the far corner of Mr. Asher’s property.
“Uh…what’s a bundt cake?” is all I can think to ask.
“You’ve never had bundt cake?” Grandma Asher asks with a wide, unbelieving eye. “Sit down, young man, and I’ll make another one and show you.”
“Enough!” explodes Mr. Asher. “No more bundt cakes! Three bundt cakes in one night are more than any man can take!” he cries, shaking his cane at the ceiling.
“Mr. Asher, I’m going to have a look around the property,” I gag. I manage to make it onto the front porch. I stagger down the steps and out toward the street.
Suddenly, and without any kind of warm-up, my ankle sends out shock waves of eye-popping pain. I’ve stepped on a bear trap! Or an alligator has just taken a free sample of my ankle! Maybe I’ve been attacked by a rat the size of a bowling ball!
I crumple to the ground. The jolt of pain is so unexpected and shocking, it’s all I can do not to wet my pants.
“I see you’ve discovered the hole from which my new mailbox was uprooted,” Mr. Asher calls out from the porch.
“Yes!” I wheeze like an accordion being sat on by Santa Claus.
“You’re not resting already, are you?” Mr. Asher asks suspiciously.
“No,” I rasp, pulling the throbbing remains of my left leg out of the hole. The pain is so great that I’m amazed to see my foot is still attached to the bottom of my leg. “How long did you have your mailbox before it was stolen?” I manage to ask.
“Let’s see,” Mr. Asher says, banging the cane several times on the wooden porch. “I just installed it this past Wednesday. It was gone by Friday. It was a beauty. It even had a brass flag.”
“Interesting,” I say, although I’m really trying to figure out if I’ll ever be able to walk again.
“Honestly, Sherlock, I’m a little more concerned about the ruckus coming from my toolshed.”
“I’m sure you are!” I sputter. Boy, can’t the guy just let me suffer in peace?
I need an aspirin the size of a truck tire.
“Mr. Asher,” I say, struggling into a sitting position, “I must continue my investigation because my time is running short.”
I feel my dad’s cell phone vibrate urgently in my pocket. What now?
Little do I know that my case and my luck are about to take a turn for the worse.
Chapter Fourteen
Who’s on First?
“Did you find Dad?” I ask, flicking open the phone.
“What do you mean? Where’s your father?”
It’s my mom! She’s must be calling from Aunt Peachy’s house.
“Uh…hi, Mom,” I say cheerfully. “How’s Aunt Peachy’s clarinet?”
“The word is ‘clavicle,’ Sherlock,” she says sternly. “Don’t play dumb with me.”
“Who’s playing?” I say defensively.
“Why are you answering your father’s cell phone?” she asks.
“Um…because it started vibrating?”
“And why doesn’t anyone answer the house phone?” she asks.
“Jessie’s hogging the phone to tell the whole world that I brush my teeth with toilet water,” I answer.
“And just what did you mean when you asked me if I found Dad?”
“What do you mean what did I mean?” I say stupidly, mostly because I can’t think of anything else to say.
As my luck would have it, another thunderous moan fills the air surrounding the Ashers’ property. The groaning roar is so loud I think I might get a nosebleed. Like before, it stops after about a minute.
