Jones & Parker Case Files

by Christopher P. N. Maselli

“It all looks pretty suspicious, if you ask me,” I concluded.

  “I didn’t ask you,” Jay replied, reaching into his pocket. “But since you’re trying to pin this on me, here’s everything in my pocket.”

  He had some change, a packet of candy fizzers, a rock, a worm, and a wad of partially chewed gum.

  “What’s the worm for?” Matthew asked.

  “In case I want to go fishing later,” Jay said. “I always keep lots of stuff in my pockets.”

  “I guess that explains the string,” I said. “But what about your shoes?”

  “These are my painting shoes,” Jay said. “I was painting the fence at my house and got too hot. So I came over here for a cold drink. Take a closer look—my shoes have lots of different colored blobs on them.”

  “He’s right,” Matthew confirmed.

  But Jay wasn’t quite finished.

  “Besides, I saw who set the trap. I’ve been sitting right here sipping this soda for a good 40 minutes. I saw this tall kid run the string, plant the fake money, and put the balloons in the tree.”

  “You’ve been skulking around here for that long?” I asked.

  “Hey, I’m a skulker,” Jay replied. “It’s what I do.”

  “At the very least, you could’ve warned Ginnie,” I said.

  “What, and spoil the fun?” Jay said. “And by the way, I’d swear that kid I saw setting this whole thing up was your brother, Barrett. So there.”

  “Do you think Jay’s telling the truth?” Matthew asked.

  I shook my head. “Stand back,” I warned. “Jay’s pants are about to catch on fire . . . and not because of the heat.”

  How does Emily know Jay is lying?

  What are the clues?

  Turn to the “Case Solved!” section on page 113 to find out.

  RECENTLY A HAIRY case showed me the importance of barking up the right tree.

  It all started on a sunny Saturday morning when my sidekick, Matthew Parker, and I were riding our bikes through Chatwick Hill. We like to pedal through this neighborhood from time to time because it’s always fun to see what wealthy people put in their front yards. A waterfall here, a Japanese sand garden there, a detective with a magnifying glass over there. What?!

  “All right, you two,” the intrepid Harlow Doyle called out when he spotted us. “Where’s the loot?”

  “Where’s the loot?” I replied as Matthew and I pulled to a stop.

  “I asked you first,” Harlow said. “Tricky wordplay won’t save you. Come with me.”

  With a wave of his hand, he turned and hurried off. We followed the detective around the corner of a big house and saw a rather large window with lots of broken glass covering the ground in front of it.

  “Was there a burglary?” Matthew asked.

  “Of course it’s a burglary,” Doyle replied. “As you well know, since you just returned to the scene of the crime. For shame, Junior Detective. I never thought you’d turn to a life of petty larceny.”

  “But—” Matthew started to say.

  “Spill the beans!” Doyle interrupted. “What did you do with the valuables? Back at your hideout, eh?”

  “We don’t have a hideout,” I said.

  “Ah, al fresco felons!” Harlow said while pulling out a small notepad. “I’ll make a note of that.”

  Just then an older woman stuck her head through the now glassless window. It was Mrs. Simmons, one of the Sunday-school teachers from church.

  “Have you found Fluffy yet, Mr. Doyle?” she said before spotting us. “Oh, hello, Emily, Matthew. Did Harlow recruit your help, too?”

  “Aha!” Mr. Doyle shouted as he wrote another note. “You know the perpetrators! That’s the way it always happens in the movies. A textbook crime.”

  Mrs. Simmons assured Mr. Doyle that we weren’t the culprits and invited us all to come inside to see the room where the theft had taken place.

  “I still think we ought to keep these two in cuffs,” Harlow grumbled as we walked into the house. “But since I lost my belt and need my handcuffs to hold up my pants, I’ll just keep a steely eye on them.”

  The crime scene was a nice bedroom containing a desk, a few paintings on the wall, a thick mat in the corner, and what looked like a brass birdcage on its side near the window.

  “Great twittering tweeters,” Harlow said, gasping. He moved straight to the large metal cage. “The crooks have stolen your birds!”

  “No, that’s just an antique I keep in Fluffy’s room,” Mrs. Simmons said with a sigh. “I don’t have any birds.”

  “I noticed a lot of valuable antiques in your house,” I said to Mrs. Simmons. “Have you figured out everything that was stolen?”

  “Oh, dear me, only one thing, as far as I can tell,” the gray-haired lady replied. “My Fluffy. But he’s the most precious thing I have.”

  Beating me to the punch, Matthew asked, “If you don’t mind, what exactly is a ‘Fluffy’?”

  “My dog, of course. Didn’t Detective Doyle tell you?” Mrs. Simmons put a hand to her heart. “This is his room. He’s a beautiful Tibetan mastiff. A bit rambunctious, but my dearest dear.”

  “A Tibetan mastiff?” Matthew chimed in. “That is a valuable dog. I read about a Chinese businessman who bought a purebred, longhaired mastiff for $1.5 million.”

  I stared at Matthew. “You read about dog sales?”

  My sidekick shrugged. “Mom won’t let us get a puppy.”

  “I must’ve surprised the thieves before they could take anything else,” Mrs. Simmons continued. “When I heard the glass break early this morning, I rushed to this room, but Fluffy was gone.”

  “Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, I know who the culprit is,” Mr. Doyle said, holding up a short lock of red hair that he found caught on the broken window. “And there’s the coup de grâce,” he crowed while pointing at a large boot print facing toward the window in the backyard. You could see where the boot had pushed some of the glass into the earth beneath it. “You kids are off the hook. We should be looking for a large, red-haired, one-legged man who’s getting away with Fluffy as we speak.”

  I glanced at Matthew. He nodded in agreement, already reading my thoughts.

  “Well, Mrs. Simmons,” I said, “I think Mr. Doyle has indeed pinpointed the key clues to this mystery. But catching the culprit may take a bit more legwork.”

  What happened to Fluffy?

  What are the clues?

  Turn to the “Case Solved!” section on page 114 to find out.

  SLEUTHING ISN’T JUST COOL, it’s practical. Situations often come up that call for someone to restore a logical order to things.

  This year on Mother’s Day, Matthew Parker and I decided to treat our mothers to a nice dinner in honor of all they do for us. Plus, we wanted to thank them for their support of our detective efforts.

  We showed up at Chez Moi for a Sunday surprise. But much to our surprise, the restaurant was full. Apparently, tons of other families had the same idea. We stood behind someone who added his name to the lengthy waiting list. Then I asked Jenny, the hostess, to add “Jones” as well.

  “It’s a 45-minute wait,” she said.

  Matthew stared at me. “You should’ve made reservations, Em.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “But it’ll be worth the wait. This is Chez Moi. Authentic French cuisine. Mmm.”

  We went back to our families and sat down in the waiting area. We talked. We played a game on my mom’s phone. But an hour later, our name still hadn’t been called. Something was wrong.

  Matthew groaned. “I’m starving. If we’d gone to Seven Seas, we’d be finished by now.”

  “Mother’s Day is supposed to be classy,” I replied. “There’s nothing classy about fish sticks and coleslaw.”

  “Classy? Last time I checked, this place had snails on the menu!”

  Some people just don’t appreciate the finer things in life.

  I went back to the hostess booth. Jenny looked nervous.

  “Jones?” s
he said, scanning the list. “I’m so sorry, but I think we lost you.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “We’ve been here the whole time.”

  “One of the reservation sheets disappeared. Your name was probably on it.”

  My stomach sank. “We’ll still be able to get in soon, right?”

  “I’ll do everything I can,” Jenny said. “You’re first on the list.”

  Just then a man approached, pulling a toddler boy by the hand.

  “This is unacceptable!” the man shouted. “My family has been waiting forever.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Jenny said. “Your name was?”

  “Stephanopoulos. It’s spelled how it sounds.”

  “Don’t worry, sir,” Jenny said. “You’re first on the list.”

  Three other parties stepped up—Fogerty, Longfellow, and Rosas. All of our names had been lost. After talking to the manager, Jenny announced we would all receive free appetizers. But we still needed tables.

  “You’re first on the list,” Jenny promised each family.

  “We can’t all go next,” Matthew pointed out. “Some of us will have to wait again.”

  “I demand that you find me a table immediately!” Mr. Stephanopoulos yelled.

  “I—I’m doing all I can,” Jenny said.

  “Maybe we can help.” I smiled. “Matthew and I are detectives.”

  “It’s true.” Matthew pulled a notebook from his back pocket. “We’ll figure out who got here first.”

  Jenny started to bite her nails. “It all happened so fast. Five groups showed up at about the same time, but I can’t remember the order.”

  “Start with what you know,” I suggested.

  Jenny closed her eyes and tried to think. “The first person on the list was wearing red.”

  We looked around. I was wearing a red dress, while Mr. Rosas was wearing a red blazer. Mrs. Longfellow pointed out that she had a very attractive green purse.

  “Anyone else remember anything?” I asked.

  “You know, I don’t think the party before or after us had any kids with them,” Matthew said.

  He interviewed the other parties. Mr. Fogerty and his wife were celebrating their 40th anniversary. They had been looking forward to a quiet dinner for two. Mr. Stephanopoulos kept grumbling that he should have taken his family to Hal’s Diner instead.

  Mrs. Longfellow gently rocked her baby back to sleep. “I’m pretty sure I’m near the back of the line,” she whispered.

  “Not us,” Mr. Stephanopoulos said. “We were in front of you for sure.”

  “That’s not true.” Mr. Rosas shook his head. “I opened the door for Mrs. Longfellow before you arrived.”

  Mr. Stephanopoulos blushed. “Well, I’m not going last!”

  My mom, always the peacemaker, buttoned her coat. “Maybe we should just go to a different restaurant. It’s the thought that counts.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I said, “but we’re not eating fish sticks today. Besides, we don’t have very long to wait.”

  “That’s right,” Matthew said. “If you look at the clues, it’s pretty obvious who should go first.”

  Do you know the order in which the guests should be seated?

  What are the clues?

  Turn to the “Case Solved!” section on page 115 to find out.

  “We had three clues,” I said, holding up the checklist Dr. Swink had written. “The first clue was that the code has three numbers.”

  “That’s right,” Dr. Graham said. “But that doesn’t tell us what the code is.”

  “Not directly,” I said. “But Dr. Swink gave us another clue on the note he wrote to you.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  I held up the soggy note. “After writing down the combination for you, he wrote, ‘My goodness. I can’t believe it’s been forty years!’ What do you think made him write that?”

  “I know!” Matthew cried out. “The code must be the date he opened his office 40 years ago!”

  I patted Matthew on the shoulder. “Exactly.”

  Dr. Graham frowned. “That’s intriguing. But how do you know the date he started this practice?”

  I held up the other paper. “Right here,” I said, pointing to the fourth line. “‘Spend 5 minutes remembering what happened 40 years ago today.’ He purposely retired from this office 40 years to the day after he started. So try the number 12 for December, followed by 19 for the day he wrote this note, followed by two digits for the year 40 years ago.”

  “Forty-one,” Matthew corrected. “It’s January now, and he wrote the note in December.” I’ve got to give Matthew credit—it’s impressive when he keeps up.

  Dr. Graham knelt down and swung the dial left, then right, then left again. Click! She pulled the lever, and the safe door groaned as it opened.

  “You did it!” Dr. Graham said, pulling out some patient records. She smiled at us. “And to think I was going to call a locksmith. But now I know. I shouldn’t have doubted you just because you’re young.”

  Bible Evidence:

  “Don’t let anyone look down on you because you are young, but set an example for the believers in speech, in life, in love, in faith and in purity.” —1 Timothy 4:12, NIV

  “Now that you know what we can do, call us anytime,” I said. “The Jones and Parker Detective Agency always cracks the case. And this time, we even cracked the safe!”

  “Whit did see paint cans with green labels,” I said. “And I can prove it.”

  “Please do,” Mr. Watson said.

  “Actually, what Whit saw were paint cans that looked as if they had green labels.” I walked over to the large storefront window. “His eyes didn’t deceive him, but the window did. See all this pollen?”

  Matthew took the cue. “Ah! When the sunlight hit that pollen, it put a yellow light on everything inside—including the cans of paint with blue labels.”

  “But he saw green paint labels,” Mr. Watson corrected us.

  Mr. Whittaker smiled. “Of course! Because yellow light shining on blue paint would look green! And that’s what I saw.”

  “Exactly!” I said.

  Mr. Watson scratched his chin. “How did you two figure all of that out?”

  Matthew held up his index finger. “Elementary, my dear Mr. Watson!”

  Everyone groaned. I couldn’t help but laugh at my sidekick.

  “Nicely done,” Mr. Whittaker said. “And maybe you’ve come up with your motto.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “No mystery too hard, no joke too easy!”

  Bible Evidence:

  “For now we see through a glass, darkly.” —1 Corinthians 13:12, KJV

  “I know why you think the game’s on clearance,” I said.

  I lifted the video game and showed the back to Barrett, setting the newspaper ad next to it. In all three places I had earlier placed three Xs on the newspaper ad; the back of the video game had Xs on it, too.

  “I used a permanent marker to cross off the sale items,” I said. “And because newspaper is thin, the marker soaked right through.”

  “So it messed up the box?” Barrett asked.

  “Right,” I said, “including the bar code symbol on the back. I realized that when the cashier said it must be on clearance—because a lot of stores cross out bar code symbols for any item on clearance so it won’t ring up at full price. The scanner rejects it.”

  “Ah,” the cashier said. “I should’ve noticed that; I’m just not used to waking up this early.”

  “Me too,” I said. “So would you do us a huge favor and try typing the numbers under the bar code symbol instead?”

  The cashier shrugged and gave it a shot—and the game rang up at the proper price.

  Then the unpredictable happened: Barrett reached over and gave me a big hug.

  Brothers. Even the lug-of-a-brother kind is something to be thankful for.

  Bible Evidence:

  “Give thanks in all circumsta
nces, for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.” —1 Thessalonians 5:18, NIV

  Matthew popped the chocolate in his mouth. “I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to say the sun came through the kitchen window, reflected off the mirror in the living room, and cooked the critters. But that isn’t it, because the sun just started coming through that window a little bit ago.”

  “No, that’s not it,” I said. “I’m afraid it was something found here at the scene of the crime, though: It was your mom’s cooking.”

  “How’s that?” Matthew asked, his eyes darting to the kitchen sink.

  “Well,” I said, “it wasn’t so much her cooking as the ingredients she used. She said the pancakes were made out of cornmeal.”

  Matthew slapped his forehead. “Cornmeal! It’s deadly to ants! And hours ago we fed it right to them.”

  “Exactly. People use cornmeal all the time to kill ants organically. The ants eat it okay, but water makes it expand in their stomachs, and they can’t digest it.”

  “That’s gross,” Matthew said. “But another mystery solved.”

  “Can I make a suggestion?”

  “No need,” Matthew said. “I know what you’re going to say: We don’t have any business owning pets!”

  I smiled. My sidekick was right on target.

  Bible Evidence:

  “Go to the ant. . . . Observe its ways and become wise. . . . It prepares its provisions in summer; it gathers its food during harvest.” —Proverbs 6:6, 8

  “The answer,” I said, “is to get to the root of your problem.”

  “I hate roots,” Jay said, “and tubers. And any vegetable that’s yanked out of the ground.”

  I smiled. “No, I mean you should ask yourself why this is so hard for you.”

  “I know what you’re going to say,” Jay said. “You’re going to say I’ve been distracted by everything in the park. Like that squirrel. But I haven’t.” Jay narrowed his eyes. “The reason this is so hard, Sherlock, is because this is math, and I haven’t learned it yet!”