Jones & Parker Case Files

by Christopher P. N. Maselli

  “Hey!”

  “Relax,” I said, flipping over the game box and laying the newspaper ad on top. Just as any detailed detective should, I crossed off everything we’d found. “CD—check! Book—check! Game—check! We’re done!”

  “Let’s go check out,” Barrett said. “I have an afternoon of gaming calling me!”

  We made our way to the front of Greenblatt’s and stood in line for what seemed like 45 minutes. The guy in front of us used a coupon, paid half by cash, half by credit card, and wanted a price match. The cash register apparently couldn’t handle the math and spontaneously rebooted twice.

  “They need to upgrade the software,” the cashier said, yawning loudly.

  As the guy left with a flat-screen TV that I’m pretty sure cost him $78, Barrett and I handed the cashier our purchases.

  Beep! The CD rang up.

  Beep! Dad’s book rang up.

  Beeeeeeeeeeep! The video game didn’t scan. The register displayed “ERROR.”

  The cashier tried again.

  Beeeeeeeeeeep! “ERROR.”

  “Sorry,” the cashier said, “It must not be in the system. There’s nothing I can do without a manager’s approval, and all of them are too busy. Can you come back in a couple of days?”

  “It should be in the system,” I said to the cashier. “Your store advertised it for today.” I pulled out the newspaper ad, flattening it carefully in my hand so she could see the advertised game.

  She looked at the bar code symbol on the back of the video game and tried again.

  Beeeeeeeeeeep! “ERROR.”

  “I think this is a clearance item,” she said sleepily. “You’ll have to come back later.”

  Barrett finally lost it. “It’s not a clearance item!” he said. “It just came out today! It’s the last one in the store!”

  The cashier wrinkled her nose and leaned forward. “Sorry. I’m not much into video games. I can hold it for you.”

  Barrett looked as if he were going to explode.

  “Be thankful,” I whispered. “She’s offering to hold it for you.”

  Then I said to the cashier, “That’ll be fine.” I started to pull out cash when I froze. “I think we should try ringing up the game again.”

  “I’ve already tried three times,” the cashier said.

  “Right,” I said, “but there’s something you need to know.”

  Why didn’t the video game ring up?

  What are the clues?

  Turn to the “Case Solved!” section on page 102 to find out.

  WHEN FACED WITH a mystery, a good detective knows you must always investigate the scene of the crime. Today, the scene of the crime was Matthew Parker’s house. As we entered his kitchen, sunlight bathed the room, warming me to the bone. The white light flowed into the living room. A mirror in the living room reflected the light back, causing me to squint.

  “Whoa—bright sun,” Mrs. Parker said, welcoming us into the kitchen. She closed the blinds a bit. Then she waved at the dishes piled in the sink. “Pardon the mess, Emily. We had a big cornmeal pancake breakfast for David earlier this morning—complete with blueberry muffins and orange juice, his favorite!”

  “That’s a pretty good Father’s Day treat,” I said.

  Matthew nodded. “And we gave Dad a ticket to today’s big baseball game. He’s there now with one of his friends.”

  “You guys didn’t want to go?”

  Matthew’s mom laughed. “I once went to a game with Matthew’s father, and the next day my ears were still ringing from him yelling so much. He really gets into it.”

  I chuckled. “Understood. What’s better on Father’s Day than cornmeal pancakes and baseball?”

  Matthew’s eyebrows jumped. “You don’t know the half of it. We have a lot more planned. When he gets back, we’re going to play games and present him with a special honor.”

  On the kitchen table were several handmade cards from Matthew and his two sisters.

  “Not those,” Matthew said, noticing I was looking at the cards. “We got Dad a pet!”

  “Oh no,” I said.

  Mrs. Parker sighed and left the room.

  “What?” Matthew asked.

  I put my hands on my hips. “You know what, Matthew Parker. Your family has a way of . . . okay, I’ll just say it: Your pets seem to die in mysterious ways.”

  “They do not.”

  “What about that gerbil?”

  “It—”

  “And then the turtle?”

  “C’mon! That’s not fair! Even the vet said she couldn’t explain that one.”

  “My point exactly,” I said. “You know your family has no business getting another pet.”

  Matthew smiled wide. “That’s where you’re wrong!” He moved to the counter between the kitchen and the living room. Perched on one end was a plastic, rectangular box. He presented it with a grand gesture. “Ta-da!”

  How I had missed it, I don’t know. I was obviously too preoccupied with setting my sidekick straight.

  “It’s an ant farm!” Matthew exclaimed.

  “You got your dad an ant farm—for Father’s Day?”

  “Do you know how hard ants are to kill? They only live, like, 60 days. Surely we can keep them alive that long. Even the cockatoo made it to 90. Besides, we wanted a pet that reminds us of Dad.”

  “Your dad is always interrupting people’s picnics?”

  “No! My dad is always prepared.”

  I stared at him, blank faced.

  “Like an ant prepares for winter. You know, like the Bible says. They are the perfect pets for the Parker family,” Matthew continued. “It was my idea.”

  That didn’t surprise me. Matthew has always been gifted at coming up with creative solutions. That’s part of what makes him such a valuable part of the Jones and Parker Detective Agency.

  I peered into the plastic-cased ant farm, a labyrinth of sandy trails exposed to the world. My eyes scanned the tiny colony from one end to the other. The ants were surprisingly . . . still. I tapped the side of the farm.

  Matthew grabbed my arm. “Careful! You could cause the trails to cave in and kill the ants.”

  “Um . . . I don’t think that’s gonna be a problem.”

  Matthew leaned forward and stared at the ant farm. He tapped the plastic case himself.

  “Yep,” I said. “They bought the—”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “—ant farm.”

  Matthew threw his head back dramatically. “How could this happen? We followed all the directions! Cooled them in the fridge so they wouldn’t move too fast, then carefully placed them in the farm. We gave them a few drops of water and pancake crumbs from breakfast.”

  “At least they had a decent last supper.”

  “They’re ants, Em. They’ll eat dead flies. I don’t think they noticed.”

  “Point taken. Did you expose them to direct sunlight?”

  Matthew shook his head. “No, you can’t do that or it could burn them up.”

  “Did you feed them after midnight?”

  Matthew headed to the pantry. “I need some chocolate.” He pulled the wrapping off a chocolate bar. “Em, we’re supposed to be supersleuths! How come this happened? It must be some sort of fluke!”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, confidently. “I think the answer is pretty clear.”

  Do you know what happened to the ant farm?

  What are the clues?

  Turn to the “Case Solved!” section on page 103 to find out.

  MY SIDEKICK, MATTHEW PARKER, and I had just entered McAllister Park on our way to Whit’s End to enjoy a couple of scoops of the best ice cream on the planet. Matthew would get chocolate; I’d get bubble gum.

  The school day was over, and our backpacks were heavy. Solving a mystery was the last thing on our minds.

  “Hey, Parker,” Jay Smouse called out from one of the picnic tables. “Just the guy I’m looking for.”

  “Hey, Jay!” Mat
thew said, walking over to the table before I could stop him.

  Jay Smouse. My brother’s on-again, off-again rival.

  Jay Smouse. Wannabe bully. Wannabe artist.

  Jay Smouse. The kind of kid who delays your ability to satisfy a sugar craving.

  Jay’s math book was open, partly covered by a pile of shuffled papers.

  “Whatcha doin’?” Jay asked.

  “We’re—” Matthew started to say.

  “Help me with my math,” Jay interrupted, pushing a piece of paper across the table.

  Matthew shot me a glance.

  “Why would I do that?” he said.

  “Because if you don’t, I’ll—”

  “I’ll help you,” Matthew said. “Besides, I like math.”

  As I thought about ice cream and bubble gum and the genius guy who put them together, Matthew stared at Jay’s math paper. He twisted his lip, then handed the paper to me. “This is a bit tough.”

  I looked at the page. Jay had written the date and “Math pg. 49.” Then he had scribbled down the problem in pencil. I read aloud, “Three-point-five twelfths plus two-point-five twelfths.”

  I stared at the problem. Matthew stared at the problem.

  “Yeah, I remember studying this,” I said.

  “Can you explain it to me?” Jay asked.

  I glanced around the park. Helping somebody who’s annoyed me and my family so many times wasn’t going to be easy. But I chose to be kind.

  I nudged Matthew with my elbow. “Do you have a chocolate bar on you?”

  Matthew slung his backpack off his shoulder, unzipped it, and produced a half-eaten chocolate bar. My sidekick is resourceful.

  “Look! A squirrel!” Jay shouted, pointing to a tree.

  I sat across from Jay and unraveled the foil. “Okay, forget the squirrel. Focus with me.” I broke the bar into smaller squares. “Each of these is like a fraction of the whole,” I said, spreading them out on a piece of Jay’s notebook paper. “So if you take a decimal—”

  “You lost me.”

  “I . . . what?”

  “We’ve been in school like two weeks,” Jay said. “We haven’t studied decimals yet this year. We just started studying fractions. You know, like six-eighths and three-fourths.”

  Matthew grabbed a piece of chocolate and shoved it in his mouth. “I don’t know if you should be taking math advice from her,” he said to Jay.

  “I’m wholly sure about that.” I laughed at my bad joke, confident that if Jones and Parker ever closed, I could always moonlight as a comedian.

  “Squirrel!” shouted Jay, pointing to the squirrel for a second time.

  “Focus . . . ,” I said under my breath.

  I studied the handwritten problem again. This was rough stuff—not just decimals or fractions—this problem had decimals and fractions mixed together. I mumbled the problem aloud once more: “Three-point-five twelfths plus two-point-five twelfths.” Then I said to Jay, “Is the answer in the back of the book?”

  “You want to cheat?” Jay smiled at me. “Wish I’d thought of that.”

  My face dropped. “I just want to work backward from the answer.”

  Jay flipped forward a couple of dozen pages to the answer key on page 170.

  The answer to the problem was four. I shut my eyes tight. How was that even possible? Oh wait . . . six-twelfths translates to . . .

  I let out a long breath and pushed the book back to Jay. “You know what you need? Ice cream. Come join us. I think you need a break so you can think straight.”

  Jay frowned. “I am thinking straight. You’re not thinking straight.” He grabbed his paper back. “But I know ice cream would help—as long as you’re buying.”

  “Can I tell you something, Jay?” I love being rhetorical. “Being kind would get you a lot further with me. Which would be a good thing, because you need a detective to solve this problem.”

  “This isn’t a mystery,” Jay said.

  “It is a mystery,” I shot back. “The answer to this problem has nothing to do with math.”

  Jay looked at Matthew. “What is she talking about?”

  Matthew nodded, a light coming on in his head. “She’s saying you’re focused on the wrong thing—and that’s why this problem is so hard to solve.”

  Do you know the solution to Jay’s problem?

  What are the clues?

  Turn to the “Case Solved!” section on page 104 to find out.

  SUNDAY IS SUPPOSED to be a day of worship and relaxation. Wake up, go to church, eat lunch with your family, read a book, watch a movie. My kind of day. But sometimes a mystery pops up, and you get a wrench thrown into your Sunday toolbox of fun.

  I biked over to McAllister Park as soon as I got the call. My sidekick in crime solving, Matthew Parker, stood at the edge of a pond with a long tree branch in his hand, fishing for a plastic contraption floating on the water.

  I skidded to a stop in the grass. “Hey, Matthew!”

  Matthew threw me a glance. “Hey, Em, thanks for coming.”

  He sounded as if someone had just eaten his ice cream . . . and then stepped on the cone.

  Matthew reached down and pulled the contraption out of the water. It was a remote-controlled helicopter, shiny and wet.

  I shivered. “It’s cold out here, and I’m supposed to be relaxing at home.“

  “I can’t relax,” Matthew said. “Look at this.”

  He held up the helicopter and shook the drops of water off its propellers.

  “What happened to it?”

  Matthew let out a long sigh. “My invention failed. I designed it with Mr. Whittaker, but something went wrong.”

  He pointed to a small lip on the front of the helicopter. “It’s a remote-controlled helicopter that delivers food to bird feeders high up in trees. You put the seed in here, fly the copter up, and drop the seed into the feeder.”

  I picked up the remote control. In addition to the up, down, and directional controls, there was a seed-release button.

  “Can I ask a question? Why not just keep the bird feeder within arm’s reach?”

  Matthew wiped the helicopter blades on his shirt. “Because in a place like a park, you might not want the feeders where people can get to them. This allows you to keep the feeders out of sight and still feed the birds.”

  “That’s actually pretty ingenious.”

  “I know! It would be perfect, if it hadn’t just plunged into the water.”

  I grabbed the helicopter from Matthew and turned it over in my hands. “It’s light.”

  “Mr. Whittaker suggested we build it light, with a plastic air bubble in the center. That’s why it floated in the water. Thankfully, it was only 100 feet away, and there’s a breeze. Otherwise, I’d be up to my elbows trying to fish it out.”

  “Too cold for that.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  I paused for a moment and looked at the treetops. “Hey, maybe you flew it too high.”

  Matthew tilted his head at me. That was never a good sign. It meant I was about to get a lesson in science or mathematics.

  “It won’t go higher than 20 meters because that’s the radius of the 2.4 gigahertz signal emitted by the remote control,” he said. “Even if it did go higher, the signal would catch it again before it crashed. But in this case, that didn’t happen. It’s like it just lost the signal altogether.”

  I popped open the battery compartment. It was still dry inside.

  Matthew shook his head. “There’s nothing wrong with the battery. It typically lasts 20 minutes. I had it on for less than 5.”

  “What about the battery in the remote?”

  “New.”

  Matthew took the helicopter and set it on the grass. He flipped a switch on the remote. The helicopter suddenly sprang to life. Apparently, it was waterproof. Matthew pushed a lever with his thumb, and the helicopter slowly lifted into the air.

  He flew it up, then west, toward a large tree that had lost all its le
aves. The helicopter lifted higher and higher, until it hovered above the top branch. Matthew spun it around so it faced us. He pushed the seed-release lever, and it popped open a couple of times as if it were laughing at us. It made me giggle.

  A moment later, it swept over our heads and then came to a peaceful rest at our feet. Matthew had controlled it masterfully.

  “You’ve got nothing to worry about,” I said, placing a hand on his shoulder. Sometimes sidekicks just need a little encouragement. “It works great.”

  “You think the dive into the water was just a fluke?”

  “I didn’t say that. But if you’re flying this thing over people’s heads and around birds, you need to make sure it works perfectly—otherwise you’ll see some feathers flying . . . if you know what I mean.”

  Matthew grabbed the helicopter again and turned it around. He put his finger in the seed tray and fished out a drop of water. “Did I mention this thing flies on the 2.4 gigahertz spectrum?”

  I stared at Matthew for a moment. “You did. That’s pretty cool.” It was a safe answer, even if I didn’t totally understand what he was saying.

  Matthew blinked twice and got a big smile on his face. “That’s it! You’re a genius.”

  “What’s it?”

  “I just figured out what was wrong with the helicopter. I know why it took a nose dive.”

  “You do? What happened?!”

  Do you know why Matthew’s helicopter took a nose dive?

  What are the clues?

  Turn to the “Case Solved!” section on page 105 to find out.

  IT’S UP TO a private investigator to figure out the key that correctly unlocks a mystery. Figuratively speaking, of course. Mysteries rarely have anything to do with actual keys. Sometimes they have to do with lights.

  Thousands upon thousands of Christmas lights.

  “Greetings and salutations, Jones and Parker Detective Agency,” said Eugene Meltsner, all-around brilliant guy and technological genius.

  “Hey, Eugene,” I said.

  Eugene was placing the finishing touches on his gigantic Christmas light display at Whit’s End. The front lawn was decorated with trees, a cross, reindeer, stars, presents, snowmen, wreaths, and about everything else seasonally appropriate.