by Dave Keane
Dave Keane
Joe Sherlock
Kid Detective
Case #000003: The Missing Monkey-Eye Diamond
For Karen Beaumont,
with gratitude
—D.K.
Contents
Chapter One: Super Soaker
Chapter Two: One Kid in a Tub of Trouble
Chapter Three: Making a Molehill into a Mountain
Chapter Four: Monkey See, Monkey Do
Chapter Five: No Guts, No Glory
Chapter Six: Living Room Weasel
Chapter Seven: Family Size
Chapter Eight: Obstacle Course of Action
Chapter Nine: A Stick in the Eye of the Storm
Chapter Ten: Limo Launch
Chapter Eleven: Calling on Mr. Spiffy
Chapter Twelve: Tightening the Screws
Chapter Thirteen: Under Pressure
Chapter Fourteen: Road Warrior
Chapter Fifteen: On the Road Again
Chapter Sixteen: Running on Empty
Chapter Seventeen: Last Chance for Gas
Chapter Eighteen: Squeeze Play
Chapter Nineteen: The Flying Detective
Chapter Twenty: Rolling to the Rescue
About the Author
Other Books by Dave Keane
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Super Soaker
There’s nothing better than a boiling hot bathtub to ease the boredom I feel between cases.
Although I’m just at the start of my career as a detective, I’ve been solving mysteries since I only had one tooth and drooled like a waterfall. Waiting for the next case has always been the toughest part of life behind the magnifying glass.
Waiting also drove Sherlock Holmes nuts.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes was the best dang detective to ever put his pants on one leg at a time. And like The Great Detective, I’ve dedicated my life to solving mysteries. So I spend lots of time waiting.
But boredom is just one of the reasons I’m boiling myself like a yam on a perfectly good Saturday afternoon.
The other reason is that my first violin recital begins in exactly three hours and fourteen minutes. Making matters worse is the fact that I’ve only had eight lessons—and I sound like it.
Sadly, just as I’m beginning to feel slightly relaxed, I burf.
“Burf” is a word invented by my best friend, Lance Peeker. As Lance will gladly explain to you, the word “burf” comes from combining the words “barf” and “burp.”
Basically, a burf happens when you burp so big and throaty that some of the hot, sour stuff from your stomach comes flying up your windpipe and sprays into the back of your throat. Usually it’s just about a teaspoon (according to Lance’s estimates), but it can ruin your whole day. Especially when it tastes exactly like something you ate the day before.
Unfortunately for me, my burf has the distinct odor and taste of an egg salad sandwich. This is surely the worst thing on the planet to burf.
Trust me.
Even worse, it’s been over two days since I ate that hideous sandwich.
As I try to choke down the teaspoon of half-digested egg salad sandwich, I hear my little sister, Hailey, giving what sounds like a tour of our house.
“And this is our hallway,” Hailey’s muffled voice explains from behind the door. “And see this big pink stain here on the carpet? It’s from the time Sherlock ate a family-size bag of cheese puffs and threw up like a volcano. You can still smell it on warm days.”
“Interesting,” a grown-up’s deep voice responds.
I sit up in alarm, sloshing water all over the floor. What’s going on out there? Who is my sister talking to? Why in the world is she talking about my throw-up stains?
“Of course, Sherlock wanted to throw up in the bathroom,” my sister continues, “but my sister, Jessie, wouldn’t let him in. She can’t stand him.”
I hear my sister start to jiggle a screwdriver around in the bathroom door’s lock. My eyes search crazily for my towel, but it’s on the other side of the bathroom. I start to sweat—even though I’m still in the bath! How is that even possible?
Hailey’s voice cackles on the other side of the door. “My dad says the only way to get a stain like that out is with a pair of scissors.”
To my absolute horror, the lock suddenly releases with a click and the door swings wide open.
Hailey bursts into the bathroom, followed by an enormous man wearing a tight-fitting tuxedo.
I am quite certain that this will go down in history as one of the weirdest moments of my life.
Chapter Two
One Kid in a Tub of Trouble
“Sherlock, sorry to interrupt your scuba-diving expedition, but Mr. Castro here needs a detective fast,” Hailey says with a sweeping, dramatic hand gesture. “So make like a knuckle and get crackin’!”
I cover myself with my big sister’s Girl Chat Sleepover sponge. I am breaking new ground in the embarrassment department.
Sure, I’m furious at my little sister. In fact, I’m ready to strangle her. But I can’t help but feel a great sense of relief, too. Finally, my third case as a private detective has arrived.
“Sherlock, you must help my son! Something terrible has happened,” Mr. Castro booms from the end of the bathtub.
“I see,” I say, as if considering the terribleness of the thing that has happened, but I’m really thinking that I should have taken a bubble bath.
“Gross! It smells like a rotten egg salad sandwich in here,” my sister says in a goofy, high-pitched voice. She’s gotten a whiff of my burf. She holds her nose and stumbles around like she’s been hit with a poison dart.
“Somebody please tell me that’s not my bath sponge!” warbles a shrill voice from somewhere behind Mr. Castro. It’s the voice of my always-angry big sister, Jessie. “I’m telling Mom you’re using my stuff, and she’ll make you buy me a whole basket of new bath sponges, you little freak!” Jessie pushes her way into the bathroom and stands like a bull snorting at one of those guys who twirls around a red blanket.
She doesn’t even say hello to Mr. Castro.
“Who’s having a party in the bathroom?” It’s my dad. He, too, has somehow worked his way through the doorway. “And look, Mr. Castro is here! Hey, are those eggs I smell?”
“Did Sherlock throw up again?” my mom calls out from somewhere in the hallway.
I’m practically expecting my grandparents to come crawling through the window.
Sensing the need for crowd control, my mom starts clapping her hands together. “Okay, everyone out of the bathroom! Let Sherlock get his robe on and talk to Mr. Castro in the living room.”
Thank goodness for my mom. And thank goodness the long wait for my next case is over.
Chapter Three
Making a Molehill into a Mountain
Mr. Castro is not just a large man; he’s like five men for the price of one. With a head as big as a prize-winning pumpkin and a body like a three-story building, he looks like he’s about to explode through the seams of his tuxedo.
As I stand dripping in front of him, I can’t help but stare at his enormous hands. Each finger is like its very own breakfast burrito.
“Sherlock, I am in the most dire situation you can imagine,” Mr. Castro begins in his foghorn voice.
“Please, go on, Mr. Castro,” I say, although I’m really thinking I have no idea what a “dire” situation is.
Mr. Castro’s voice fills the room like rolling thunder. “My son is to be married at our house this evening. It’s a madhouse down there. A last-minute scramble. It’s buzzing like a beehive, with everyone rushi
ng around doing final preparations. Sherlock, at six o’clock, over one hundred guests will arrive to watch my son get married in our backyard.” He stops suddenly and stares at the palms of his mammoth hands, as if he can’t believe how big his mitts have grown, either.
“That sounds just lovely,” says Hailey. She must have snuck up behind me while Mr. Castro was speaking. Hailey sometimes helps me out on my cases, like an assistant. But actually, she’s more like a stick in my mental mud.
“The reason I am here,” Mr. Castro rumbles on, as if he hasn’t even noticed Hailey’s entrance, “is not so much my problem as it is the groom’s problem.”
“I see,” I say, although I’m secretly kicking myself for not knowing what the heck a groom is.
“The groom is the guy who’s getting married,” Hailey whispers loudly in my ear, loud enough so that Mr. Castro knows that I have no clue what a groom is.
I give her some stink-eye and draw two fingers across my lips in a clear “keep that loud mouth of yours zipped shut” gesture.
“My son,” Mr. Castro continues, looking up from his hands, “has misplaced the wedding ring and the very large and expensive diamond that was attached to it.”
“Fumble late in the fourth quarter!” exclaims Hailey so loud that my right eye twitches.
Suddenly the words come tumbling out of Mr. Castro like an avalanche of very large stones. “We’ve looked everywhere. The guests will be arriving soon. My son is in a panic. We’re growing more desperate by the minute. Will you help us find the diamond ring, Sherlock?”
“You bet he will,” Hailey announces, slapping me hard on the back.
I clear my throat, giving Hailey a glare that would surely melt cheese. “Um, I have my first violin recital tonight, Mr. Castro, but I think I can crack this case before I have to leave. This kind of thing is right up my alley.”
Mr. Castro jumps to his feet very quickly for a man the size of a two-car garage. “Excellent! Please, there is no time to waste. I will pay any price you ask. Just come soon.” He rolls past us and out the front door before I can even respond.
“Don’t blow this one, Sherlock,” Hailey says, slapping me hard on the back again. “It may be up your alley, but it looks like this one is way out of your league, big brother.”
The three-headed jackrabbit bouncing around in my stomach tells me she might be right. Out of my league and out of my mind.
Chapter Four
Monkey See, Monkey Do
“I just don’t think anyone will notice.”
My mom is trying to convince me that I don’t look like a complete doofus in the suit I wore last year at my aunt Peachy’s fourth wedding. She wants me to wear it to the Castros’ house in case I don’t have time to get back here and change before we leave for my recital.
Sadly, I’m much taller than my pants seem to remember.
“I think you look like a spiffy little detective,” she says, admiring me in a shaky voice that sounds like she’s about to burst out laughing.
“Spiffy?” I groan. “I think you mean dopey.”
“Maybe I can let the hem of those pants down a bit,” she chuckles. “Let me get my sewing kit.”
I grunt in exasperation. “Mom, I don’t have time. The clock is ticking.”
“Okay! Okay!” she says. Then she walks quickly away down the hall while covering her mouth with her hand. I think she’s rushing off to find a nice quiet spot to have a good laugh at my expense.
“Holy shin extenders!” Hailey cries from behind me. “Did you take those pants off your Inspector Wink-Wink doll?”
“It’s an action figure, not a doll,” I mumble, staring up at the ceiling.
“Did Mom wash that suit in the microwave oven or what?” she giggles.
I sigh. “The pants are a little short.”
“A little short? I can almost see your kneecaps.” She has a good laugh, too. I’m so glad everybody is having the time of their lives.
I spin around to give her my two cents. “I don’t need you to—” Suddenly I am frozen like a moose in the headlights. Hailey is wearing a fancy dress and swinging a little purse around in circles like some kind of deadly weapon.
“You can’t come, Hailey!” I explode. “I don’t have time to keep an eye on—”
“Oh, get off your high horse, Mr. Short Pants,” she interrupts. “Dad says I can go. And besides, you don’t know the first thing about weddings. You didn’t even know what a groom is. Boys are clueless when it comes to things like love and diamonds and manners and how to pour a cup of punch. So I’ll just help out if you need me.”
Before I can answer, Jessie snickers from the other end of the hall.
“Nice monkey suit, Detective Clam Digger,” she snarls.
Hailey is at my ear in a flash. “Clam diggers are a kind of pants that women wear. They only cover three-quarters of the leg, just like your pants…. See, I’m already helping.”
“I know that already,” I whisper back, even though I really don’t. My head is starting to ache, and I haven’t even left the house yet.
“I’m too busy for you right now, Jessie,” I grumble.
“Aaaghgh,” she grunts, which is how she responds to just about anything I say. It’s the kind of sound typically made by someone who has a plastic fork stuck in their throat. Jessie is thirteen years old and has been in a bad mood since she turned eleven. My dad says it’s just a stage she’s going through and that she’ll grow out of it by the time she’s thirty.
“I’m on a case right now and I don’t have time to share a few laughs with you,” I peep, although I wanted it to sound more like a snarl.
“Don’t worry,” she snaps, “your pants will provide all the laughs you need.” She stops and considers me for a moment. “So what’s the big mystery? Did someone steal your organ grinder?”
“Organ grinder?” I croak.
Hailey is at my ear in a flash. “An organ grinder is an old-fashioned street performer who turns a handle on a music box while a costumed monkey on a leash collects coins from people on the street. Jessie thinks you look like the monkey. That’s already the second time I’ve—”
“We’ve gotta go!” I blurt out in exasperation. I pull Hailey down the hall and past Jessie. I give my sneering big sister the nastiest eye squint a kid wearing knickers can muster.
“Good luck on the case of the incredibly shrinking pants!” she calls after us.
Hailey starts in again. “She’s saying that you’re actually trying to solve the mystery of how your pants—”
“Just stop talking,” I manage to hiss before another burf escapes.
“Yikes! You stink like dead lizards!” Hailey screeches.
“It’s egg salad sandwich,” I say.
“That is just so gross,” she gasps, grabbing her nose.
“Hailey, please stop talking!” I feel like pulling out my hair, but I don’t have time. “I can’t think with you blabbing away all the time. And there’s something I need to do before we leave.”
“I hope it involves taking a shower!” she exclaims in a plugged-up voice. She proceeds to stagger around, bump into walls, and shout, “Stink bomb! Stink bomb!”
With all these annoying distractions, I’m not sure I could think my way out of a wet paper bag. How am I supposed to solve a high-pressure mystery?
I need to do something I should have done as soon as Mr. Castro left our house. Maybe it’s not too late.
Chapter Five
No Guts, No Glory
My best friend, Lance, never answers the phone. Ever.
Instead, Lance’s grandma always picks up the phone, says something I can’t understand, slams down the phone, and shuffles off to get Lance. It usually takes Lance about a week and a half to get to the phone.
While I wait for Lance, my mind wanders off in the direction of Mrs. Hudson.
Mrs. Hudson is my violin teacher. She is very strict. And very easy to disappoint. She’s always yelling at me that the three most importa
nt factors in mastering the violin are repetition, repetition, and repetition. I know she thinks this is clever because every time she says it, she leans to one side and makes a creepy murmuring noise. In fact, she does this after she says just about anything. Now that I think about it, my violin teacher is completely nuts.
“Sherlock, you’re green,” Hailey says from across the room. “You’re going to throw up, aren’t you? It must have been that egg salad sandwich! I think it was toxic!”
“I’m on the phone,” I grumble at her.
“I’ll get a pot from the kitchen so you don’t ruin another rug,” she hollers. She runs off before I can stop her.
I signed up for violin lessons mostly because Sherlock Holmes is always playing the violin in his movies. It just happens to be my sort of luck that I get a wacko instructor who seems like she’d be better at running a maximum-security prison than teaching lazy kids to play the violin.
“Don’t move,” Hailey grunts from behind me. She’s spreading newspaper out on the floor all around me. “Here’s your target,” she says, slamming down the enormous pot my mom uses to cook pasta. “I’ll see if I can get some plastic sheets to cover the furniture!” she screams.
As I watch my panic-stricken sister scramble out of the room, it occurs to my stomach that I really should be practicing for tonight’s recital. I need the work. I’m playing only two short songs at the recital, but when I play “Mary Had a Little Lamb” and “Farmer in the Dell,” it sounds like three angry cats trapped in a dryer on fluff cycle.
