Howard Wallace, P.I.

by Casey Lyall

  Ivy stared at her feet, her eyebrows drawn together in a frown.

  “C’mon, why?” She’d pushed it this far. I wasn’t letting her go without an answer.

  Something between a groan and a growl burst from Ivy, and the words came spilling out after it. “Because this town sucks!” she said. “There’s nothing to do. I’ve lived here for two weeks, and I’m already bored out of my mind.” Ivy slumped back in her seat, her temper fizzling out as quickly as it had sparked. “Do you know how hard it is to make friends in a town where everyone’s known each other since birth? Pick a clique, any clique. I don’t think so.”

  “Who said anything about friends?”

  “Touché.” She leaned forward on the bucket, intent on her pitch. “Okay, Howard. Real talk time. It’s bad enough punishment that I’ve been exiled to no man’s land—now I’m reduced to begging for entertainment. Bottom line is I’m stuck here, and you seem like the only kid who’s found something cool to do.”

  I took a moment to digest her outburst. Grantleyville was definitely a few steps down from most places, excitement-wise. Me being in the same sentence as cool, however, gave me pause.

  “It’s not that cool,” I said. “Most of the time it’s boring. People get riled when you ask too many questions, so when it’s not boring, it’s usually messy.”

  “You’re not gonna scare me off,” Ivy said.

  “Bravery is not valued over common sense here at Wallace Investigations,” I said as something from Ivy’s rant sent red flares through my brain. “What did you mean by ‘punishment’?”

  “It’s a long story.” She waved away the question. “Why are you the only kid in Grantleyville without a bestie?”

  “That’s a longer story.” And not one I was inclined to share with an interloper. “What makes you think you’d be any good at investigation?”

  Ivy held up four fingers and waggled them at me. “Hear me out, okay?” She lowered the first finger. “One, I’m smart. Two, I’m persistent. Three, I’ve got people skills. Something you’re seriously in need of, by the way, so it’d be handy to have in a partner. Four, my dad’s a cop, and I’ve picked up all kinds of investigative tips from him.” Dropping her hand, she smiled. “All I’m asking is for you to give me a chance.”

  She fell silent, waiting for me to respond.

  I didn’t need a partner. It wasn’t like I was overrun with cases. It would only make things complicated—and aggravating . . .

  . . . but interesting.

  I’d had more fun arguing with Ivy in the last five minutes than I’d had in the last five months. Blue wasn’t the best conversationalist. Having a partner would mean I could take on more cases. As senior partner, I could charge more.

  I was delaying Ivy’s departure by debating with myself. Telling her to buzz off was the most sensible thing to do, but I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. A tiny knot travelled up from my stomach, unleashing whispers of doubt in my brain. My friendship-starved neurons were at war with my better business sense. Get a grip, Howard. I gave my head a shake.

  Ivy sensed she was losing her audience and pulled a piece of paper from her pocket. “I brought my resume.”

  This should be good. I skimmed through the sheet she handed over. “Your hobbies are reading, spying, and skulking?”

  “And baking.”

  “You’ve listed Sherlock Holmes as a reference.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  “Points for creativity! Come on, Howard,” Ivy wheedled. “You know this is a great idea.”

  The kid was right about being persistent. She’d hound me until I said yes anyways. Not that I was saying yes.

  “Maybe,” I said, shaking my head even as I said the words. This was a terrible idea.

  “Maybe, yes?”

  “With conditions.”

  “Shocking.”

  “Temporary junior partner,” I said. Ivy erupted in a fist-pumping chair dance. “Hey, hey, cool it. I said ‘temporary.’ We’ll do a trial period for one week and see how it goes.” I didn’t see her sticking. She’d probably burn through her curiosity in a couple of days and wander off.

  Ivy jumped up and grabbed my hand in an enthusiastic shake. “You won’t regret this, partner!”

  “Already do,” I muttered.

  She turned to leave and then stopped. “I have one question.”

  Of course she did. “Shoot.”

  “What’s with the getup? Is that the company uniform or something?”

  “What getup?”

  She got a pained look and waved her fingers in the general direction of my lucky coat. I looked down and held out the sides.

  “This? All P.I.s wear a trench coat.”

  “Dude, that’s a brown bathrobe.”

  I shrugged and straightened out my sleeves. “First rule of private investigation, Ivy: work with what you’ve got.”

  “Noted!” She popped off a two-finger salute and began to walk away. “See you tomorrow, Howard Wallace.”

  I could hardly wait.

  Chapter Five

  I looked at my watch: enough time to squeeze in some work on Scotty’s case before I was due home for dinner. Gathering up my files, I headed to the bike rack to retrieve Big Blue. She was leaning listlessly against the metal bars. A baleful air of loneliness and neglect unfurled from her in waves. The only bike left in an empty schoolyard. Cue the tumbleweeds.

  I shook my head at her creaks of annoyance. “Chin up, Blue. Nobody likes a drama queen.” I slapped on my helmet and we did a few warm-up laps of the parking lot before leaving. Frosty demeanor aside, Big Blue was never at her best late in the afternoon. Our destination sat only five minutes away: Marvin’s on Main Street. Blue and I usually made it in ten minutes, but this time it took fifteen (punishment for the drama queen comment). I secured my pouty ride to the chain-link fence that lined the lot behind the store. Marvin’s had the dubious honor of being the only pawnshop in Grantleyville. It was also one of the longest-running non-Grantley businesses, owned and operated by Mr. Marvin Parsons for the past fifty years.

  I checked myself out in the window of the side door. It was always good practice to look professional for an interrogation. A scrawny kid trying to tame brown flyaway hair looked back at me. I was slightly taller than Ivy, but that wasn’t saying much. Rumpled white shirt with a peanut butter stain on the hem, wrinkled jeans, scuffed blue sneakers, and a worn, brown terrycloth coat. At least my outfit screamed private eye if nothing else did. Squashing my hair down onto my forehead, I abandoned the attempt to spruce up my reflection. We were as good as we were gonna get.

  I dug into my pocket for a piece of gum and headed around to the front entrance. A tinny bell jangled when I came through the door. Dust motes swam through the air with lazy abandon, and tiny shafts of light flickered as they fought through the years of grime on the front window. Decrepit merchandise lolled on the rickety metal shelves, any hope for another life given up long ago. Walking through Marvin’s store was like walking through a graveyard of questionable life choices. A lacy, yellowed wedding dress with puffy sleeves hung in the corner. Mugs shaped in the heads of celebrities resided on a shelf on the back wall. Eight different Elvises took up the front row. There was a whole cabinet labeled “Junk Bought Off of the TV.” It was one of my favorite places in all of Grantleyville.

  Harsh, hacking coughs came from the small room behind the counter. I rang the ancient bell beside the cash register twice, loudly: once, to be heard before the wheezing could reach its crescendo, and the second time to show I meant business.

  “Be right there,” Marvin’s voice rasped through the doorway. It had the gravelly tone of a larynx that had survived a lifetime of cheap cigarettes and poor ventilation.

  Marvin wandered out and came shuffling up to the counter. I’d never learned his exact age but figured it could be anywhere from seventy to a hundred and five. His various vices over the years had preserved him to the point of human jerky. Coarse gray hair sp
routed from his nose and ears, complementing the liver spots that dotted his bald head. In his prime, Marvin may have been a spiffy dresser. These days, a white tank top and black suspenders seemed to meet his requirements for business casual. He held up a pair of glasses, rearranged the dirt with a stained handkerchief, and peered through the thick lenses.

  “Howard Wallace!” A dangerously phlegmy laugh erupted from his chest. “What brings you back to my fine establishment?”

  I returned the grin and leaned an arm on the counter. “Working a case, Marvin.”

  “Ah, yes, the intrepid P.I.” Marvin wiped his nose vigorously and stuffed the cloth back in his pocket. “Caught any more vandals lately?” He flashed a toothy, yellow smile at me when I shook my head and settled his bony elbows on the register.

  “So, how can I help you?” he asked.

  “I’m trying to chase down a valuable missing item for a client and I was hoping maybe it found its way here,” I said.

  “Well, anything I got in recently, I put over on the ‘New and Hot’ shelf.” He chuckled as he waved a hand at the lone shelf beside the counter. A light sprinkling of dust covered most of the items, practically factory-new compared to the rest of the merchandise. Gleaming at me from its prime center spot was the jackpot.

  “You got the ‘Hot’ part right, Marvin. You’re harboring stolen merchandise here.” I plucked the trumpet case from the shelf and strode back to the counter. Marvin’s picture-perfect look of shock was the result of sixty-plus years of practice.

  “Get outta town. Stolen merchandise? You kidding me?”

  I turned the case around to face him. “See this little stamp here— G.M.S? That stands for Grantleyville Middle School.”

  “Howard,” he groaned, “you expect me to be able to read teeny-tiny writing like that? An old man like me?”

  I opened it up to show him the ID tag inside. “Property of Grantleyville Middle School. And see, under here, it says which student it belongs to for the year. Scotty Harris. Room 204.”

  Marvin shrugged. “Simple mistake. An oversight. Could have happened to anyone.”

  “I agree.” I snapped the lid shut. “Scotty Harris made a mistake leaving his trumpet in the gym, and you made a mistake not vetting your merchandise.” I began to lift the case off the counter when Marvin closed a hand over it.

  “Mistake or not, I still paid good money for this thing.”

  “And I hope you learn from that. Now either I take the trumpet back to its rightful owner or you can explain to the police how it ended up here.”

  “Is that any way to talk to your first client?” Marvin scowled. “You know, I didn’t have to hire you. Scrawny kid, coming in here, telling me you’ll catch the bums painting up my windows. I could’ve kicked you to the curb.”

  “But you didn’t,” I said under my breath. Marvin was fond of this speech.

  “But I didn’t,” he carried on. “I took a chance on you, and now this is how you repay me? I’m just saying, I’m out of pocket for that piece. How am I gonna recoup the cost?” A mournful stare replaced the scowl. “I’m not as young as I used to be, you know. I gotta start thinking about retirement.”

  I fought back a smile. Never mind the fact that I had solved the vandal case for him. Marvin worked hard on his pathetic-old-man routine. A chuckle would only insult him. “Tell you what. How about I offer up a swap?”

  Marvin crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe. “I’m listening.”

  “You let me take the trumpet to Scotty, and in return I owe you a favor.”

  Shrewd eyes watched me as he chewed over that suggestion. “How do I know you’ll keep your end of the bargain?”

  I dug through my coat pockets with a wounded sigh. “Marvin, that hurts me.” He shrugged his narrow shoulders and grinned as I pulled out one of my cards. “I’ll write you an I.O.U., and you can give it back when you’re ready to call it in.”

  He eyeballed the card and adjusted his speckled glasses for closer examination.

  “Howard, that’s a sticky note.”

  I scribbled down the debt and pressed it into his hand. “Times are tough all over, Marv. Take it or leave it.”

  He pocketed the card and spit into his other hand. “I’ll take it.” We shook on it, and Marvin squinted at me over the counter. “You know, a Grantley would never stoop to making deals with the likes of you,” he said.

  “I’d never stoop to making deals with a Grantley.”

  Marvin cackled long and loud before his laughter devolved into a wheezing cough. I slapped him on the back. Next to Blue and Pops, Marv was one of the few friends I had left in this town. I couldn’t have him keeling over in front of me. He waved me off and straightened up, crowing at the ceiling. “Not today, you old coot.” Marvin winked at me. “Not today.” Satisfied he’d keep breathing a while longer, I headed to the door with my prize.

  I didn’t bother asking who’d brought him the trumpet. Even if he’d managed to get an accurate look at the culprit through his opaque lenses, Marvin would never rat on a future regular. Scotty would have to be happy with the return of his instrument minus the satisfaction of justice. Maybe this reprieve from the recorder section would teach him a valuable lesson about finders-keepers.

  “You’re good people, Howard,” Marvin called after me as I blinked my way back into the sunlight.

  Glad somebody thought so.

  Chapter Six

  Big Blue and I arrived home to find my old man parking his car in the garage. He eased his tall frame out of the seat and leaned an arm over the car door. “Howard, Blue.” He gave a nod to each of us in turn. “How was your day?”

  I pulled the note from Ms. Kowalski and the yellow folder from my bag and handed them over. After a brief perusal, he couldn’t hold back a grin. “‘Two p.m.,’” he read aloud, “‘Subject exited back door and smoked one cigarette behind the dumpster.’ You are good, Howard. I thought I got away with that.” Pops closed the folder and considered the note again. “Tell you what,” he said, handing them both back to me. “You write a proper essay, I’ll check it over and your mother never has to hear about it . . . or the cigarette.”

  “Deal.” We shook on it, and I shoved the incriminating evidence back in my bag.

  “Besides getting busted for academic negligence, what else happened today?”

  I popped Blue’s kickstand and set her in her reserved parking spot, giving myself time to sort out which one of today’s developments could be divulged. Once she was settled, I turned and hit Pops with the major headline. “The new girl asked to get in on the business. Wants to be my partner.”

  He paused, still reaching for his bag in the backseat, and shot a look at me over the top of the Volvo. “New girl?”

  “Ivy Mason, four feet, ten inches, brown hair, brown eyes, no known aliases. Moved to Grantleyville a couple weeks ago. Keen to make her mark.”

  “Credentials?”

  “None to speak of. Says her father’s a cop and she picked up a thing or two along the way. I’m taking her on for a trial run, but I don’t expect it’ll work out.”

  He gave a low whistle and shut the car door. “Partner. That’ll be a change—not to mention a blow to your gum supply.”

  “Junior partner,” I pointed out. “If she even makes the cut. Plus, company rule: newbies bring their own gum.”

  “That’s a solid rule.” Pops nodded sagely as we exited the garage and headed toward the house. He paused on the driveway and stopped me with his briefcase. “Let’s not count her out so quick. I think it’d be good for you to have someone to work with,” he said with a suspiciously casual shrug. “And to have someone to hang out with again.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I shoved the case away from my chest. I’d had far too much Monday to deal with the direction this conversation was taking.

  “Don’t get all worked up, Howard,” Pops sighed. “It’s been months since Noah moved away and over a year since Miles—”

&n
bsp; “He has nothing to do with this.”

  “All I’m saying is, gum concerns aside, it might be nice.”

  “I don’t think anything to do with Ivy is ever nice,” I said. “So far it’s mostly frustrating and exhausting.”

  “I like her already,” Pops said as he and I walked to the side door.

  Inside, the usual pre-dinner chaos reigned. I’d no sooner set down my bag and hung up my coat than a hand snaked out and pulled me into the dining room. “Howeird, you should have been home, like, thirty minutes ago. At least.” Eileen Wallace: an unpredictable blond creature who was obnoxiously fourteen and irrationally annoyed at being related to me. She took after our mother in both looks and general aura of disapproval. A fistful of flatware was shoved into my hands. “It’s your turn to set the table, freak. And Mom said no shop talk at dinner, so spend the next ten minutes coming up with something normal to talk about.”

  I wondered if Sam Spade got this much grief from his family. “I set the table yesterday,” I called after Eileen as she stalked back to the kitchen. “It’s your turn.”

  “Your own fault for being late,” she said. “Next time, call.”

  Hard to do when your phone’s been confiscated—indefinitely, according to my parents, or until I can learn appropriate usage. Why are there cameras in phones if not for taking surveillance photos?

  After dinner, I sped through my homework (proper “How I Spent My Summer Vacation” essay included). I shoved my schoolbooks back in my bag and made sure Scotty’s trumpet was in there for the next day. With that taken care of, I could finally get back to some real work. Grabbing the bag of cat food obtained from Mrs. Peterson, I hit the streets.

  One hour and a pack of gum later, I’d walked the entire neighborhood. Shaking the kibble and calling “Here kitty, kitty!” had provided mixed results. Three cats followed me—none of them my target. I gave them each a handful of food to get ’em off my tail and on the slim chance the sight of other cats eating his fancy chow would bring Gregory out of hiding. A search of the surrounding porches, trees, and bushes proved equally useless.