Jones & Parker Case Files

by Christopher P. N. Maselli

  “Looks like your microwave door needs to be tightened,” Matthew said. “You might need a screwdriver for that.”

  Mason removed the oven mitt and shook his head. “That’s all you got? I can show you a hundred things in this house that need tightening. If I wanted a screwdriver, I’d have gotten one long before today.”

  “We’re not leaving without Bessie,” Matthew said.

  “Who?” Mason huffed. He opened the coffee can and grabbed the spoon. “Yeouch!” He jerked his hand back, a stripe of red down his palm. He pressed it to his lips. “Now look at what you made me do! Sam!”

  Finally, we heard a voice from the other room call, “I’m playing a video game!”

  “Some kids want their screwdriver back!” Mason yelled.

  The voice responded, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  Mason shrugged. “There you go. We don’t have it. So you can leave now.”

  “We’ll be happy to leave,” I said, “once you turn over the screwdriver. You’re lying to us, and I can prove it.”

  Do you know how Emily can prove Mason’s guilt?

  What are the clues?

  Turn to the “Case Solved!” section on page 109 to find out.

  CLUES COME IN a variety of flavors. Sometimes they’re right in front of your face. Other times they’re hidden.

  My sidekick, Matthew Parker, and I were discussing this topic when we were interrupted by the sound of screaming. When you’re a detective, this means it’s time to jump into action.

  The scream of frustration came from an ice-cream truck parked a short distance away. The side of the boxy white truck read, “DOC’s Ice Cream.” Pictures of a dozen or so tasty-looking treats with their prices were scattered above the words “Edible for kids!” (Just in case you were wondering, Donald Oliver Cleese—known as Doc—always had a little trouble connecting with a younger audience.)

  Matthew grabbed my arm. “Emily, are you sure we should check this out? Mr. Cleese competes against Mr. Whittaker’s ice cream.”

  I laughed and kept walking. “C’mon. There’s no competition. Whit’s End is the best!”

  We approached the truck and found Mr. Cleese sitting in the back. An old-fashioned wood-and-metal ice-cream bucket sat between his feet.

  “Mr. Cleese?” I called out softly.

  The ice-cream vendor turned toward us, his hair messy and his eyebrow raised.

  Surrounding him were milk and whipping-cream cartons, sugar bags, vanilla bottles, salt and pepper shakers, cups and spoons, and some mysterious small jars. Matthew didn’t say a word.

  I held out my hand. “We’re with the Jones and Parker Detective Agency. We heard you scream. Can we help?”

  Mr. Cleese let out a long breath. “Not unless you can make homemade ice cream.”

  “I can make homemade ice cream,” Matthew piped up.

  I blinked. “You can?”

  “Cooking is scientific,” Matthew said, as if that explained it.

  Mr. Cleese kicked the ice-cream maker at his feet. “I’m trying to make a new flavor of ice cream for the holidays.”

  My mouth started watering. “And the flavor is . . . ?”

  “Turkey.”

  My mouth instantly dried up. “Excuse me?”

  A smile broke onto Mr. Cleese’s face. “It’s the perfect holiday treat!” He grabbed one of the mysterious jars beside him, unscrewed the lid, and revealed about a pound of ground turkey.

  Matthew pointed. “That is dis—”

  “Delicious,” I interrupted. “But wouldn’t something like pumpkin pie be a better idea?”

  “And possibly more edible for kids?” Matthew added.

  I stared at Matthew. Sidekicks can be so unpredictable.

  Mr. Cleese didn’t lose a beat. “Clearly, you don’t know kids very well.”

  Matthew and I exchanged glances.

  Mr. Cleese continued. “For Christmas, I’m planning another flavor: mashed taters.” He smiled. “There’s a reason I’m the one with the ice-cream truck. You might be skeptical, but you’ll find they don’t taste half bad.”

  His words almost made me laugh, because I was thinking those flavors probably wouldn’t be half good.

  Matthew knelt, looking at the old-fashioned ice-cream maker. “So what’s the problem?”

  Mr. Cleese tapped his knuckle on the center canister. “I can’t get the mixture to stiffen up. It just stays sloshy.”

  I took a closer look. “What are you doing differently than normal?”

  “Making it myself,” he said. “Usually I buy my ice cream from the store.”

  Matthew’s head snapped up. “So this is your first attempt at homemade ice cream?”

  Mr. Cleese tapped his knuckle on the side of his head. “All great ideas start somewhere.”

  I nodded. “So how do you make it?”

  “With lots of love,” he said.

  “No,” I said, “I mean, literally, how do you make it?”

  Mr. Cleese raised an eyebrow. “With lots of love.”

  Matthew tried a different approach. “Can you show us the process?”

  Mr. Cleese pulled out a new canister and mixed in milk, whipping cream, sugar, and a splash of vanilla. Then he added the ground turkey (it was cooked), along with sprinkles of pepper and salt.

  He closed the canister and inserted it into the larger wooden bucket. He surrounded the canister with ice and started the machine that turned the ice cream.

  “Are you done?” Matthew asked.

  “No,” Mr. Cleese said. He leaned down and gave the bucket a kiss.

  It was awkward.

  Matthew looked knowingly at the newbie ice-cream maker.

  “I think I know why this isn’t working,” he said. “You left something out.”

  “What?” Mr. Cleese said, looking at everything surrounding him. “It’s all in there.”

  Matthew shook his head. “No, it’s not.”

  Do you know what Mr. Cleese left out?

  What would help stiffen up the ice cream?

  Turn to the “Case Solved!” section on page 110 to find out.

  HAVE YOU EVER noticed how observant moms can be? They’d make great detectives. My sidekick, Matthew Parker, often talks about how his mom knows what he’s up to before he even has time to actually do it. So when my mom told me we might have to change our plans for a celebratory “happy-birthday-hooray-Mom” dinner at a new Italian restaurant, I knew she’d observed something I probably hadn’t.

  “It’s your dad,” Mom said. “He’s in his study, going through some files for a friend from law school. If he doesn’t come out soon, we’re going to miss our dinner reservations.”

  “What?” I gasped. “He’s the one who helped Barrett and me set everything up. Dad would never ruin your birthday.”

  “Oh, Emily, he won’t be ruining anything.” Mom smiled. “The church service this morning was wonderful. Besides, I don’t need a fancy meal for my birthday to feel appreciated by you guys.”

  Mom’s not the only observant one in the family. I noticed she was wearing her favorite dress and the earrings Barrett and I had given her after church. No matter what she said, I knew this dinner meant a lot to her.

  I walked over and opened the door to the study. “Dad, you’ve got to come with us. We’ve been planning this night for weeks.”

  My dad is a really good judge. He loves my mom (not to mention great Italian food), but he never rests until he’s connected all the dots on a case. I could tell from the look on his face that he wouldn’t be able to enjoy dinner unless this case was put to bed.

  “I’m sorry, Emily,” Dad said. “But I promised to sort through these files for a friend.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked. “Maybe a little quick detective work?”

  “I’m afraid this one’s complicated.” My dad sighed. “It has to do with a robbery in Connellsville and a group of teen thieves. I may have a lead on who’s the real thief,
but I want to make sure.”

  “Maybe another pair of eyes could help,” I said. “And if I call Matthew, that would be two extra pairs.”

  “Make that three,” Mom said, standing at the door.

  With a smile, my dad gave in. In no time we were all in his study. Who knew where Barrett was. Probably playing video games.

  “I can’t stay too long,” Matthew said while pulling a few books off the seat of Dad’s overburdened chair. “I need to help my mom with chores in 10 minutes.”

  “So we definitely don’t have time to check out the crime scene,” I joked.

  Dad gestured to the pile of papers on his desk. “That’s what I’ve been doing this afternoon. These police reports are related to the case.”

  “Wow. You read all of these?” I asked.

  “That’s the life of a dedicated judge,” Mom said.

  For a second, I thought I saw Dad blush. “The police definitely caught the thief,” Dad said. “They’re just not totally sure which one he is.”

  Matthew looked confused.

  “I can’t go into all the details of the antique store break-in, but it’s believed there was only one thief,” Dad continued. “It’s puzzling. These teen friends—let’s call them John, Bruce, Dougie, Charlie, and Harry—are secretive types who refuse to give straight answers about anything. But the police conducted thorough interviews with them and several other witnesses. From studying all the transcripts, I’ve come up with a group of facts.

  “First, the suspected thief and the group’s ringleader were overheard having a big argument, and someone heard the word robbery used.

  “Second, the ringleader and Bruce play in a local video gaming tournament every Wednesday night. And John, one of the few in the group who owns a car, picks them up at 9 o’clock and drives them home.

  “Third, Dougie is thought to really like the robber’s sister, who was once going out with Charlie.

  “Fourth, Dougie also works at the local bowling alley on weeknights and is thinking about taking a job at his brother’s sports equipment store.

  “Fifth, the ringleader is heavyset, and his mom works at the Connellsville supermarket. John, an only child, works there part-time as a stock boy.

  “Sixth, Charlie is skinny and has been arrested for breaking and entering once before.”

  “Hmm,” I murmured showing my notes to Matthew. “These are an odd bunch of facts.”

  “But I think we have enough to work with here,” Matthew said.

  “Yep.” I smiled. “Not only can we figure out who is the ringleader and who is the thief, but we can also make reservations for Mom’s birthday dinner.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Mom said.

  Do you know who’s the ringleader and who’s the thief?

  What are the clues?

  Turn to the “Case Solved!” section on page 111 to find out.

  “I SAW you leave the auditorium myself, Emily,” Ms. Adelaide said, frowning in my direction. “Then I caught him in the hallway.”

  As I stood in front of the lockers between Vance King and Olivia Parker, I couldn’t help but think how odd this felt. And not because Olivia was still dressed up in her emerald-green costume and rosy-cheeked makeup. I’ve helped solve many cases, but rarely have I been one of the prime suspects.

  To give you the full picture, I ought to back up a little.

  It was the last day of school. Tests were finished. Projects were turned in. All we had to do was clean out our lockers, watch a fun musical by the drama department, and then merrily begin our summer break. But about halfway through the performance, Ms. Adelaide had gone back to her classroom to complete some grading. That’s when she discovered that the stacks of textbooks she had collected had disappeared.

  She shouldn’t have been totally surprised. Every year on the last day of school, somebody usually plays some silly prank. One year one of the bathrooms was filled with balloons. Another year all the whiteboard erasers went missing. But this was the first time I was a suspect, or Olivia Parker for that matter. Her brother (and my sidekick), Matthew Parker, stepped forward to vouch for us.

  “I was sitting right next to Emily during the performance,” Matthew declared. “She started coughing and left the auditorium for a drink of water. She was only gone for a minute or two. I can guarantee it wasn’t enough time to take the books.”

  “How can you guarantee that?” Ms. Adelaide asked.

  “I just walked the number of steps between the auditorium and your classroom: exactly 179,” Matthew said firmly. “She couldn’t have run that distance, hidden the books, and made it back in the amount of time she was gone.”

  While Ms. Adelaide considered his argument, I couldn’t help smiling at my fact-focused friend.

  “And my sister couldn’t have done this, either,” Matthew continued. “She was in the play, after all.”

  “Yeah,” the glitter-covered Olivia chimed in. “Why would you think I took the books?”

  “Because I told her you did it,” Vance said with a defiant glint in his eye. “I saw you do it, so admit it.”

  Olivia gasped. “I didn’t touch any books.”

  “You did too,” Vance said.

  “Did not,” Olivia said.

  “Did too—”

  “Wait a minute, Vance,” Ms. Adelaide interrupted. “Why don’t you tell me your side of the story.”

  “It’s simple,” he began. “I admit I wasn’t in the auditorium watching the stupid musical. I was in an empty classroom. Jay was supposed to meet me to buy this old vinyl record that my dad gave me. Jay’s into that junk. But he never showed up. Then I heard a locker slam. I stuck my head out of the door and spotted Olivia running from her locker. I know it’s hers ’cause it’s just a couple down from mine.”

  “But how do you know she had anything to do with the textbooks?” I asked.

  “’Cause when she saw me,” Vance went on, “she turned white as a sheet. She knew I’d caught her. She looked so guilty I knew it had to be something big. I went back in the classroom to wait, and when I came out, that’s when you nabbed me, Ms. A.”

  “You weren’t in every scene of the musical, Olivia,” Ms. Adelaide pointed out. “You could have slipped away, so his story is at least plausible.”

  “I promise you I didn’t do it,” Olivia pleaded. “You’ve got to believe me.”

  “Hey, if you wanna find out for sure,” Vance smirked, “why not check her locker? It’s right there.”

  We walked toward the locker, and Ms. Adelaide asked Olivia to open it.

  “That’s strange,” Olivia blurted. “It shouldn’t be locked. I already cleaned it out, and I left it open like we were told to.”

  When Olivia unlocked the locker and popped it open, it wasn’t empty. Tons of textbooks nearly toppled out. Ms. Adelaide looked crestfallen. Both Matthew and Olivia gaped with surprise.

  “I have to admit,” Ms. Adelaide said, “I’m disappointed.”

  “See?” Vance beamed. “What did I tell ya?”

  “You did say Ms. Adelaide caught you right after you came out of the classroom, right, Vance?” I asked quickly. “You didn’t go anywhere else?”

  “No,” Vance snorted. “I was waiting for Jay. Just like I told you.”

  “Well,” I said, “I think we know who really hid the books, Ms. Adelaide. And it’s not Olivia Parker.”

  Who put the books in Olivia’s locker?

  What are the clues?

  Turn to the “Case Solved!” section on page 112 to find out.

  A REALLY, REALLY hot day can make you feel as if you’re going to melt, but it doesn’t keep mysteries from bubbling up. My mystery-loving sidekick, Matthew Parker, and I found our next case as we headed over to Whit’s End to cool off.

  I was dreaming of a fruity milk shake when I saw my friend Ginnie walking toward us. Suddenly, she stopped under a tree and picked a piece of paper off the sidewalk. Without warning, gobs of gooey green stuff splattered onto her head.


  “Oh yuck!” she shouted.

  “What happened?” I asked, running up to her.

  “I saw a dollar on the sidewalk,” Ginnie said. “When I grabbed it, I got slimed.”

  “You mean Jell-O-ed,” Matthew said, walking up. “Lime, I think.”

  His observation didn’t make Ginnie any happier.

  “My mom’s gonna be mad,” Ginnie said. “This is a new shirt. Who would do something like this?”

  “Somebody pretty smart,” Matthew said. “When you picked up that fake dollar, you tripped a hidden string that caused two balloons filled with Jell-O to swing down and splat together. It’s pretty ingenious.”

  “Whoever set this up is probably long gone,” I said.

  “I’m not so sure,” Matthew said. “If he went to this much trouble, I’d guess the culprit would want to stick around and see if his trap worked as planned.”

  I glanced around. Jay Smouse sat across the street on a bench in front of Grocer Jenkin’s store. The three of us made our way to where Jay sat, cool as a cucumber, sipping a soda. I had to admit his can of cola, all glistening wet with drips of running dew, looked deliciously cool and refreshing.

  “Did you do this?” I asked. (The heat must’ve been getting to me. Normally, my questions are more clever.)

  “Me? Nah,” Jay said, almost smirking. “It is a real mess, though. Good thing she’s got Parker and his sidekick to help her.”

  I could read right through Jay’s little wisecrack. He wanted to make me mad and throw me off my game. Matthew grinned, and Ginnie continued to look sticky and miserable.

  “That dried green spot on your shoe seems about the same color as the stuff that’s all over Ginnie,” I noted.

  “Yeah,” Matthew added. “And there’s string hanging out of your pocket.”