by Dave Keane
Mrs. Hudson likes to say that I’m her most “challenging” student, which is just a nice way of saying she’s met shellfish with more talent.
Just as Hailey rolls in my dad’s industrial-strength shop vacuum from the garage, Lance finally picks up the phone.
“What took you so long?” I blurt into the phone.
“Sherlock? Hey, how’d your violin recital go?” he asks.
“It hasn’t happened yet,” I say. “It’s tonight.” I shift my feet around, and newspaper crinkles under my feet. “You’re not coming, are you?”
“Sorry, pal, I’m as busy as a one-legged man in a tap-dancing contest.”
I’m quiet for a few seconds. “Are you too busy to join me on my newest case? It involves a big diamond and a big payday. C’mon, Lance, I’ll split the money with you if—”
“Uh, that sounds thrilling, but I entered this online Vengeance in Venice! tournament. I’m competing with thousands of players from around the world. Right now I’m playing some guy in India named Parth83.”
I blow out some air. I look up at the ceiling and clench my teeth. I’m not surprised by his answer. Just surprised that I took the time to call him when I knew he wouldn’t come. I need to accept the fact that Lance would rather play a video game with some strange kid in India than share an adventure with his best friend. “There’s going to be lots of food,” I say, and immediately wish I hadn’t.
“Uh, that’s great, but my grandma just made me some tuna nachos.”
Tuna nachos? My stomach quivers at the thought. Those are two words that were never meant to be put next to each other! I turn around and lean over the pasta pot.
“He’s gonna blow!” Hailey screams, and runs out of the room.
I hang up on Lance. I wait for the rolling sensation in my stomach to pass. The phone rings in my hand. Without answering it, I know it’s Mr. Castro, wondering what happened to me. I drop the phone into the pasta pot and stumble out our front door.
Sadly, I have no idea that the case waiting for me at the Castros’ house will put my sleuthing skills and my sensitive stomach to the ultimate test.
Chapter Six
Living Room Weasel
Mr. Castro was right: His house looks like a swirling, whirling vortex of confusion and panic—a lot like our kitchen when my dad makes dinner.
The Castros live just six houses down from my house. It’s usually the neatest house on Baker Street, with the most raked and clipped yard. But today it’s taking a beating.
Mr. Castro is waiting for me at the open front door. Without a word, he waves at me to follow him. I do.
The inside of Mr. Castro’s home is a thunderous tornado of noise and confusion and fear that reminds me of lunch recess. It’s hard to believe there will be a wedding here in ninety minutes.
“That’s a terrific ice sculpture of a weasel,” I shout over the noise, mostly to slow Mr. Castro down, since I’m practically running behind him now.
He stops and stares for a long time at the massive frozen sculpture that’s being lowered by six men onto a long table.
“That’s supposed to be a swan,” Mr. Castro says with a weird look on his face.
“Oh…sometimes I get weasels and swans confused,” I say awkwardly, cursing my brain for always being lost at sea when I need rescuing. But my explanation must satisfy Mr. Castro, because we’re suddenly on the move again.
I quickly reach into my coat and feel my pad of paper and pencil. It’s what I’ll need to create one of the most important and useful tools of the successful detective: the time line.
You often see the main guy in detective movies use a time line to solve missing persons cases. I expect it works just as well for missing wedding ring cases.
As I jog in Mr. Castro’s wake, my active imagination can’t help but cook up a few new nicknames for my large neighbor: The Walking Earthquake. The Human Skyscraper. Mr. Sun Block. The Man Who Ate Chicago. The Whole Enchilada. King Kong’s Big Brother. The Shadow Maker. The Bouncer of Baker Street. All You Can Eat Man. Bigger Than—
Without warning, my nickname game is interrupted as a fear tucked in the back of my mind roars to life. It explodes so violently and unexpectedly that I think my bladder might pop. “Is Ranger here?” I ask, fearing a sneak attack by Mr. Castro’s freakishly big and nasty dog, who has always wanted to snarf me down like a strip of crispy bacon.
“Ranger is staying at a relative’s house for the day,” he says as we make our way down a hallway. We stop before a closed door.
“Perfect,” I say, but still check behind me just in case.
“Brace yourself,” Mr. Castro warns. “Everybody is under a lot of stress.”
“Of course,” I say, trying my best to sound as confident as The Great Detective, but instead it comes out as a stuttering hiccup and gasp followed immediately by an explosive burf that almost blows me back through the door.
Chapter Seven
Family Size
I secretly swear to never eat another egg salad sandwich for the rest of my life.
“Is somebody burning scrambled eggs?” cries a man who looks like a younger, equally gigantic version of Mr. Castro. “My eyes are watering!”
This, of course, is the groom. I study him as he checks the bottoms of his shoes for the source of the mysterious odor. Although he’s dressed in a shiny tuxedo, he looks like a wreck.
Several strange men in tuxedos curse loudly and hurry to throw open the room’s windows, as if they’re desperate for any way to be useful.
The groom’s eyes jump around the room wildly, like a guy trying to watch three tennis matches at the same time. I don’t remember seeing him before, although he could almost pass for Mr. Castro’s younger twin brother. He probably moved out of this house when I was no bigger than a loaf of bread.
“Son, this is the boy I mentioned,” Mr. Castro says with a nod. “Sherlock, this is my son, Herbert Junior.”
The men in the room look up briefly. My guess is they’ve never heard Mr. Castro’s son referred to as Herbert Junior before. It’s not the kind of name you want to get around.
Herbert Junior looks at me for the first time. He blinks. “What on earth happened to your pants?” he asks, as if he’s momentarily forgotten his current difficulties and would rather focus on mine.
“Uh, it’s a long story,” I say with a fake laugh.
“Apparently not long enough,” he huffs, and begins to pace back and forth and nervously run his fingers through his hair. “Kid, if you can get me out of this jam, you’re a miracle worker.”
“When was the last time anyone saw the ring?” I begin, pulling out the pad and pencil. I draw a simple line across my pad from left to right. This will be my time line.
“That diamond was huge!” the groom bellows just inches from my nose. I take half a step back. “How could I lose it on my wedding day?” he continues. “It was as big as a monkey’s eye! How could this happen to me?”
Mr. Castro was certainly right about the stress taking its toll.
A tiny speck of the groom’s spit has landed on my right eyelid. I’d love to wipe the thing off, but I’m afraid to make the slightest move. Instead, I try to imagine how big a monkey’s eye might be.
Finally, the groom relaxes and sags a bit. He glances at his watch and returns to his pacing.
“So when was the last time you saw the ring?” I squeak, and clear my throat as if I can’t figure out how my voice could squeak at a time like this.
In a sudden rush of words, the groom tells me that the last time he saw the ring was at the tuxedo shop this morning. He and his dad had gone in for some last-minute adjustments. “I showed my dad and the lady helping us the ring. The diamond was in a new setting, with a parade of little diamonds around it. That ring was worth more money than you and I will make in a lifetime, I guarantee you that much, Buster Brown.”
“Interesting,” I say after a pause, mostly because I can’t think of why he thinks my name is Buster.
I carefully search all the pockets of the groom’s jacket and pants. I even pull out my magnifying glass and inspect the cuffs at the end of his tuxedo pants, because I once found the missing key to my dad’s briefcase in the cuff of his pants. It’s a long shot, but you never know when you might strike gold—or diamond! The cuffs are empty.
I crawl around and give the room’s carpet a close inspection as well. Nothing.
“Herbert Junior, I need a ride to the tuxedo shop as soon as possible,” I announce, rising to my full height in this room full of giants. I now have their full attention. I am clearly their last hope—which sounds pretty desperate even to me. “It’s best to begin at the start of the beginning.”
The room goes silent.
“There isn’t a moment to lose,” I add, simply because it’s something Sherlock Holmes always says in a pinch, and I need something to break the spell I’ve cast over them.
Then Mr. Castro clears his throat, spins around, and opens the door. “I will arrange your transportation with the limousine driver,” he says, glancing down at his watch. “You are correct—we don’t have a moment to lose.”
Chapter Eight
Obstacle Course of Action
Sherlock Holmes wasn’t the kind of guy who needed Barf Blockers.
But I am.
The sad truth is that if I don’t have a Barf Blocker pill before I get into a car, someone better have an empty shopping bag handy.
I suffer from extreme carsickness. Always have. I used to get carsick getting pushed around in a stroller. I get carsick just flipping through racing magazines at the dentist’s office. In fact, if my dad backs the car down the driveway too fast, I’m usually blowing marshmallows by the time we clear the sidewalk.
Of course, there were no cars when Sherlock Holmes was a detective. He was always hopping into the back of these tiny black stagecoaches that would go clip-clopping down bumpy streets made of millions of rocks glued together. The bumping alone would have had me spewing in no time, but considering the horse poop plopping down all over the place, I don’t know how the guy did it.
My stomach is already registering a 5.8 on the Sherlock Queasiness Scale, and I’m only walking down the hall behind Mr. Castro just thinking about getting my first ride in a limousine.
Hailey interrupts my thoughts by sticking a piece of cake in my face. Well, not actually in my face, but pretty darn close.
“The wedding cake is carrot cake!” she hisses. “Can you believe it? Nobody has carrot cake for a wedding reception. I hate carrot—”
“Are you nuts?” I snarl between clenched teeth. “Why on earth are you eating the wedding cake? The wedding hasn’t even started! You’re going to get me in big trouble!”
“Oh, take it easy, Mr. Daddy Longlegs,” Hailey replies, as if taking a slice of a wedding cake before the wedding starts is no big deal. “It’s just a smidge. And besides, I took it from way in the back, so nobody would notice. Can you believe it’s carrot cake?”
“Give me that,” I snap. I grab the fork from her. “Hide that plate and stay out of trouble. I’m getting a limo ride over to the tuxedo shop where the groom last saw the ring.”
“A limo ride?” she says, and whistles. “Can I come?”
“No,” I sigh. “You’re like a poisonous hunk of kryptonite that weakens my supersensitive brain powers.”
“Well, you better bring your cape so you can puke into it, Mr. Super Spew,” she says. “You in the back of a limousine is something I’d love to see. Hey, don’t forget your shopping bag.”
“Just stay out of trouble,” I grumble.
“Yes, sir, General Tiny Pants!” Hailey shouts, and salutes like an army guy.
As I growl and rush off to find Mr. Castro, I realize my little sister is less like an assistant and more like a speed bump for my brain.
Chapter Nine
A Stick in the Eye of the Storm
“What happened to your pants?”
The skinny girl standing in front of me in the Castros’ living room is someone I think I know, but she’s so covered in curls, ribbons, sparkles, and lip gloss that I can’t quite place her.
“Do I know you?” I ask, squinting like some guy who’s been whacked between the eyes with a wooden spoon.
“Silly Sherlock, it’s me! Irene Adler!” she laughs.
“Oh,” I mumble. “I didn’t recognize you.”
Irene Adler has given me the heebie-jeebies for as long as I can remember. Her most favorite hobby since preschool has been staring at me with her big, googly eyes. And she always stands next to me. Worst of all, she laughs at anything I say.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, trying to look past Irene at the swarm of activity going on in the Castros’ home.
This question brings on a blast of laughter so loud that I duck like a guy who just heard a bullet whiz over his head. Her unexpected laughing always catches me by surprise. I am more certain than ever that there is something wrong with the wiring inside Irene Adler’s head.
“I’m the flower girl, of course,” Irene says, and spins around, showing me her dress. “You must be the ring bearer.” She giggles and punches me too hard on my arm. “It’s almost like we’re getting married, isn’t it?”
I feel like someone just dropped a scorpion down the back of my pants.
“Ring bearer?” I gasp. “I don’t even—”
Before I can finish, Hailey is at my ear again. My assistant can sneak up on me better than a ninja assassin with thick socks on.
“A ring bearer is sometimes part of a wedding ceremony,” Hailey whispers in my ear. “He’s usually this embarrassed, dressed-up kid who walks down the center aisle carrying a little pillow with the bride’s ring tied to it. He follows the flower girl, who chucks rose petals all over the place. Honestly, what would you do without me, Mister Peewee Pants?”
I start getting a sharp pain right behind my eyes.
The main guys in detective movies never seem to run into the kind of obstacles that I run into. And let’s face it, Irene Adler is about as useful to me right now as a box of rocks. I need an escape plan and I need it fast.
“I’ve gotta go now, Irene…I’ve…I lost my monkey,” I say, without thinking about what I’m saying while I say it.
“You have a monkey?” Irene howls with laughter and slugs me on the arm again. I can actually hear her lips crackling and smacking, like someone mixing a giant bowl of macaroni and cheese.
The needle on my internal creepometer is hitting the red zone. I officially have the willies.
“Well…” I say stupidly, momentarily wishing I had a brain that could think on its feet.
“You mean he had a monkey, until he lost it!” Hailey squeals with delight.
This only makes Irene laugh harder. She’s in serious danger of sucking the ribbons right out of her hairdo.
Hailey puts her arm around Irene and steers her toward the house. “Let’s see…where could Jimmy be?” Hailey says, pretending to look around while also naming my imaginary pet at the same time. She glances back at me and winks.
She’s good. Maybe she’s not such a bad—
“What happened to you?” a voice booms from behind me.
I flinch, spin around, and peep like a recently hatched chick. It’s Mr. Castro.
He looks down at my hand and slowly pulls Hailey’s carrot-cake-encrusted fork from my clenched fist. I should have gotten rid of that thing!
“What’s this?” he asks quietly.
“Uh…that? Oh, I found that in the bathroom just off the kitchen,” I say with a shrug.
“We don’t have a bathroom near the kitchen,” Mr. Castro says, narrowing his eyes.
Dang it! Why am I the world’s worst liar? I am caught like a hairy, fat fly in every single tangled web I weave. My stomach starts to do backflips.
He suddenly sighs, looking at the chaos going on all around us. “I’ve arranged everything with the limo driver,” he says without looking at me. “Follow me. Th
ere’s something I need to tell you.”
Oh, great.
Chapter Ten
Limo Launch
“Sherlock!” Mr. Castro is staring at me like he can’t believe his enormous eyes.
I realize he’s been talking about something, but I haven’t been listening. I’m distracted by the shiny limousine in front of me. I shake my head and downshift my brain into the here and now. My dang mind needs to be on a leash.
“Did you get that? Nobody can know what you’re doing,” Mr. Castro says, looking back over his boulder-size shoulders. “My wife can’t know. The bride can’t know. And my son’s new in-laws certainly can’t find out. It will start a panic that will spread like wildfire.”
“Of course,” I sputter, although I’m really thinking that I really don’t know what an in-law is. Are the cops involved now?
“This is Earl,” he says, motioning to the limo driver. Earl smiles and nods in my direction. “He was driving us earlier,” Mr. Castro continues. “I’ve explained the urgency of the situation to him. He will retrace our steps for you until you locate the diamond.”
Without a word, Earl pulls the back door open for me like I’m some big shot. I climb into the back of the vehicle with my stomach kicking and screaming the whole way.
Earl hops into the driver’s seat and starts the engine. He seems like a pleasant enough man, but he wears large mirrored sunglasses, which I find irritating for some reason. I can see myself in his reflective lenses, sitting like a rich guy in the buttery-soft black leather. I wave at myself.
Earl waves back.
